


Warning Shot

by SoulfireInc



Series: Daredevil Fanfiction [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Adorable cinnamon rolls, Gen, Hospital, Karen Finds Out, Multi, Team Avocado, Whump, gun shot wound, matt whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-14 03:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11199990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulfireInc/pseuds/SoulfireInc
Summary: Karen's curiosity brings trouble to Nelson and Murdock - in the form of a sniper's crosshairs.





	1. Sniper

**Author's Note:**

> AN: A little hurt/comfort fic to hopefully get these adorable cinnamon rolls out of my head for a while. Not a case-heavy fic, mostly an excuse to see Team Avocado rally around each other, and maybe come to understand Matt a little better. Hope you enjoy! Reviews much appreciated :) Also available on FF.net.
> 
> Context: Set post S1 in an AU. S2 hasn't happened, but some of its relationship-building moments have, like Foggy having Matt promise he won't die as Daredevil, and Matt and Karen starting to go out for curries in rooms dripping with chili lights.

Some jobs took weeks of recon. Others took days. This one revealed its answers in the first seven hours, the other two days’ worth of staring through a sniper scope only confirming his gut instincts. Three days to be sure one bullet finished the job. Three days to be certain the blond woman and her lawyers would back off.

            She had a name, of course, but it didn’t matter. She was a mark. A target. The orders had come down to ‘dissuade’ her investigation, stop her digging. His research proved she was the one who put the lawyers on their scent, and it was only after they started poking around that the Daredevil had come by the docks. Stop the lawyers, stop the girl. Remove scrutiny, remove the need for caution. Once the cops gave up and the spotlight was shut out the order would be given to take out the devil. No more extra security with bigger guns, just a well-laid trap and a bomb. Or however they decided to kill the bastard. That wasn’t his problem.

            She was. And his check would clear as soon as she was solved.

            The pigeon that had been strutting around the roof was getting bolder. It probably figured the black sack hid something edible, something worth stepping within striking distance of the black-clad human who hadn’t moved in hours. Its deep-throated coos came oddly regularly and with irritating monotony, as though it were asking the same question over and over again, determined that he answer it.

            _Do you have food? Do you have food?_ The click of claws on concrete. _Do you have food?_

            Keeping the blond firmly centred in his sights, he slowly withdrew his left hand from the gun. His muscles moved obediently, ignoring the creeping aches of inactivity. His shoulder rolled as his hand slid away from the concrete barrier, the movement hidden from the law firm across the street. Even if the blond or her lawyers looked up now, they wouldn’t see past the sun shining behind him.

            _Do you have food? Do you have food?_

            Without taking his eyes from the woman gesticulating around a folder in a tiny office above a hardware store, he lashed out with one clawed hand. The bird squawked in surprise but the startled flap of its feathers was cut short by his sure fingers. Before it had time to peck at his fist, he jerked his thumb and forefinger towards each other. The snap of bone was hardly louder than a cough. He threw the corpse away and readjusted his grip.

            There. The lawyers were in the middle window again. The fat one was raising his fists and smiling, his face determined. He was half-facing the sights where he stood. There was a clear shot of his chest now, one arm raised across it in what would be a futile shield. The sniper’s finger stroked the trigger. Not him.

            The blind one was leaning against the ancient fax machine on its shelf. Only his lower half was in view, and it shook as he laughed at whatever the fat one was saying. As he watched, the woman moved across his field of vision, momentarily blocking the blind one as she came to sit beside him, her arms folded as she spoke. He caught the defeated slump of the fat one’s arms out of the corner of his eye, and tracked him as he turned back into his office. The woman stayed beside the blind one, who was still chuckling.

            He stroked the trigger again, relishing its smooth curve. Any second now. Once she was clear.

            As soon as the message was delivered, she’d understand why the bullet didn’t have her irrelevant name carved into it. The earliest recon showed her weakness – and there it was again: she nudged the blind one with her shoulder, her long hair briefly catching the sun as she turned her head towards him.

            He had seen a thousand little touches, just like that one. He had seen her watch the blind man through the window into his office, watch him walk away to get coffee. He had seen her shoulders straighten whenever he entered the room. She may care about the fat one, may spend more time with him when the blind one was late, but he wasn’t the one she loved. He wasn’t the target.

            The blind one pushed away from the cabinet, stepping fluidly across the width of the office, heading for the fat one’s room. The woman stayed were she was, a file held against her black skirt.

            The scope moved as though following its own instincts. He barely felt his calloused hands guide its arc as it swivelled to follow the blind lawyer. One more step and he’d be in full view.

            He took a deep, slow breath through his nose. The air whistled slightly, like the breeze through the rooftops. Inconspicuous. Invisible. He raised his shoulder minutely, finding the shot that was waiting for him.

            The blind man took his last step.

            His finger squeezed the trigger. Gently. Smoothly.

            The spit of the bullet was drowned out by the crack of the glass.

            His shoulder buried the recoil with barely a flinch.

            The white shirt began to bleed.

            The man on the rooftop opposite Nelson and Murdock stood, dismantled his weapon, repacked it in the black bag, and had strolled to the fire escape before the screaming had truly started.


	2. Matt

            “Which would be a lot easier if I had, say, a _partner_ who could maybe split this gargantuan pile of work with me,” Foggy lamented from his office.

            Karen leaned into his shoulder briefly, the warm pressure sending a gentle tingle up his neck. “I think that’s your cue, Mr. Murdock,” she half-whispered, the coffee on her breath harmonising with the scent of her floral perfume. “Wouldn’t want to incur the wrath of the Foggy Bear.”

            His laughter was eclipsed by an indignant “I heard that!” from the other room. He returned the shoulder bump and leaned his face closer to hers, adopting a mock-conspiratorial tone. “Maybe if we teach him how to juggle we could finally make some decent money around here.”

            “I’d sure pay to see that,” she laughed. He snuck a quick kiss on her temple as he stood up. Her heart skipped at his touched and his smile seemed to tug his own higher in his chest.

            “If I’d just been a butcher I’d have _respectful_ employees ... and lots of knives handy when they got uppity,” Foggy stage-whispered darkly and Karen’s answering chuckle wove like a breeze around Matt’s amused snort.

            He took another step, his hands reaching out unnecessarily to find the doorway to Foggy’s office. “So what’s in this ‘gargantuan pile’ of your–”

            He heard a high whistle and the tinkling _crack_ of breaking glass and flinched a split-second before a small and intense fire punched its way into his chest. He stopped short, his breath burnt away. He tried to gasp and tasted wet copper. He looked down, trying to find the source, and the smell of it intensified, mingled with hot metal and singed polyester. A vacuum opened in his muscles and he felt his strength drain away. The world seemed to blink, disappearing for the briefest moment, returning with a too-loud _thud_ and a blunt pain in his shoulders and head.

            He heard Karen and Foggy call his name, their voices sharp with confusion and unknown fear. He heard Karen’s heel grind against the floorboards as she pushed suddenly away from the shelf.

            “Karen, no!” He choked, his lungs jarring around air that shouldn’t burn like this. He bit down another breath. “Stay – down!”

            The rasp of shoes scuffing floor as she stopped dead. The sharp clatter of her nails as she crouched. Where was Foggy? Matt listened for the heavier heartbeat, too fast but low to the ground. Was he out of range? The pain shrieked so loudly he could barely hear the room. The blood was so pungent he couldn’t smell anything past it. The world had shrunk to a concentrated inferno and the pulsing fear of his friends. Details were burned away into a smokeless haze. Billowing blindness. Shades of black.

            The fire in his chest tightened like a molten fist. What little breath Matt had seized in his lungs and his eyes widened as the pain crashed through him. He could feel hot, wet blood spreading steadily across his chest, could smell it soaking through his shirt, its thick weight cloying against his skin, drenching him. He tried to breathe, his chest bucking slightly with the effort as the heat surged in warning. He couldn’t fill his lungs, couldn’t control them. His heart beat waves of sickly warmth up through the hole in his chest while the bullet smouldered against his screaming flesh.

            “Matt! _Matt!_ ” Foggy’s shout cut through the pain clawing at his mind, shocking him into hearing. He tried to answer, to move, to tell Foggy to _stay down,_ tried to listen across the street for the gun, he needed to hear it next time –

            Cracking thuds sounded above his head, vibrations ricocheting through the floor into his skull. A deep voice said something he couldn’t understand. Hands crashed into his shoulders, the impact jolting through his chest as they clawed at his jacket. A fierce tug and he was being pulled across the sandpaper floor, its grooves like knives against his palms, snatching fibres from his suit, gouging the heels of his shoes. Pain stole his breath and he cried out, his lungs shrivelling inside him. The hands lowered him back to the floor, easing his head gently down, warm and strong against his skull. Then they were gone. A great, creaking groan roared from his right, something heavy and wooden moaning closer. Slender hands pressed against the font of blood in his chest and he gasped as the pain flared to a new pitch, twisting his air into a snarl that didn’t sound human.

            A light, racing heartbeat broke through the wall of sound, its pulse beating through the hands pressed mercilessly into his wound. Karen. When did she get here? She was over by the window, wasn’t she? He hadn’t heard her move.

            The monstrous groan stopped so abruptly it felt like a punch. Karen’s trembling hands withdrew and were replaced by bigger, heavier ones, pressing harder. Foggy. Matt croaked, his lungs too empty to fuel a full groan. He felt his glasses whisked off his face and dropped aside but they seemed to land very far away.

            There was a rhythm in the air. A melody that made no sense, fast and sharp and worried. A bloodied hand appeared on his cheek, pushing his face towards the sound. He made out his name and blinked, forcing himself to concentrate, to understand.

            “Matt? Matt, can you hear me?”

            “Shit, he’s losing too much blood.”

            “Yes – we’re on the corner, above the hardware store, second floor. Please hurry, I don’t think – he’s not breathing properly, he’s – god, there’s so much blood _._ ”

            “Matt? Matthew!” That voice was closer now, louder, drowning out a tinnier crackle that might have been from a phone. “Matt you need to breathe for me, okay? Just breathe. Please.”

            Matt tried to speak, to tell them he couldn’t breathe, that there was no air. Only fire. He needed to tell them to get out of here, get out of range. His mouth worked but the only thing he heard was a sickly gurgle. The hand at his cheek pressed harder, the thumb stroking his cheekbone, trying to soothe him. The two heartbeats he could hear were racing each other, thudding in frenzied competition.

            He forced his lips into a smile and heaved a great breath. He meant to tell them he was okay, it was okay, but something beside his breastbone ripped and he coughed, his mouth filling with hot, sweet blood. He choked, his throat lost in the wet heat. He frowned against the pain, trying to focus, trying to find his lungs, _force_ them to work. He chest bucked again. Thick blood stole out of the corner of his mouth, oozing down to meet the copper waterfall that poured through the pressing fingers, over his collarbone, snaking behind his shoulder.

            Foggy and Karen were talking to him. No. Shouting at him. Why did they sound so far away? He could feel their hands against him, holding him together. What were they saying? It was like they were calling to him from under water, the syllables lost along the way.

            Numb darkness clawed at his mind. It pulled him down, down. He tried to lash out against it, but his arms wouldn’t move. It dragged him deeper into its depths, away from his friends’ terrified voices. He could barely feel their hands on him anymore. The pressure seemed miles away. Like the pain. He couldn’t feel any of it anymore. Just the cool numbness of sleep, promising safety, an escape from the fear.

            He felt his eyes slide shut.


	3. Karen

            Foggy’s fingers were a vice around hers. Her own grip whitened her knuckles under Matt’s cooling blood as they swayed, siren wailing, through the streets of New York. Foggy’s hands were slick with shades of red. Karen barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on Matt. His head rocked from side to side as the ambulance rumbled on. The waxy grey of the oxygen mask strapped around his mouth and nose almost matched the wanness of his skin. The still glistening trail of blood snaking down the corner of his mouth, over his jaw and along his neck, was more black than red against his pallor. He almost look like a character in a black-and-white film, the dark hair and thick eyebrows black against the too-white skin.

            His eyes hadn’t opened since the office. He hadn’t responded to anything she or Foggy had said. Hadn’t so much as flinched as the paramedics loaded him on the stretcher and carried him down to the ambulance. Even now, as they roared over potholes and howled through the streets, his face didn’t so much as twitch. Her other hand was clenched so tightly around his lax fingers she could barely feel how cool they were in her sweating, blood-slicked grip.

            One of the paramedics – Alicia – was unbuttoning Matt’s shirt, needing a better look at the bullet wound. _God,_ she thought disbelieving, _Matt has a bullet wound. How did this happen?_ Her frenzied thoughts froze as Alicia pulled Matt’s shirt free of his torso. She heard Foggy curse beside her. Karen barely noticed the too-toned muscles. Almost didn’t register the bizarre scars across his chest, the two healed slashes on his side. His chest, almost his entire torso, was splashed in burgundy, as though someone had thrown a can of paint at him. What little skin had escaped the trickling river of blood was as pale as his face. It was thickest just to the left of his breastbone, the deep red turned black, thick as oil and pulsing gently in time to the heart monitor’s shrill beeps. Alicia pressed fresh, thick gauze over the wound, the sterile whiteness quickly eaten away by rich, bright red. Karen tried to remember how to breathe. Where that blood was spreading, wasn’t that – isn’t that where the heart is?

            Foggy squeezed her hand and she realised it had started trembling again. She tore her gaze away from Matt and saw her terror reflected in Foggy’s wide, lost eyes. This couldn’t be happening. How was this happening? They’d just been joking in their office. This didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would anyone shoot Matt?

            Her eyes slid back to his face. He looked dead. Like a corpse. Her gaze zeroed in on the tiny puffs of condensation flaring inside the mask. There. Breathing. He wasn’t dead as long as he was breathing. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t –

            The abrupt halt of the little puffs’ rhythm didn’t make sense for a brief, still moment. The sudden scream of the heart monitor filled the ambulance. Matt’s face didn’t change. One wheel hit a bump and his head jerked to the side.

            “What’s happening?” Foggy’s voice shook. “Matt? Matt!”

            Alicia was moving with incredible speed, speaking fast over the monotonous drone of the monitor which was somehow louder than the siren’s wails. Karen felt Foggy lean back, drawing their hands away, his free fingers prizing hers from Matt’s cold, still ones. Her vision was oddly blurred, Matt’s face swimming slightly. She blinked. Tears fell hot against her cheek and she realized for the first time how her breath shook through her, her teeth almost chattering. Was she the one saying Matt’s name over and over?

            It took a moment for Karen to remember what the paddles were. The high pitch of the charge gave her a split second to prepare for what was about to happen. Alicia pressed the paddles hard against Matt’s chest, checked he was clear, and seemed to punch them down. Matt jerked, his back arching, fingers clenching, head pressing hard into the stretcher before falling back, limp once more. The heart monitor resumed its cry. A strange, strangled sob escaped Karen’s tight throat.

            “Don’t you dare, Matt,” Foggy snarled beside her. There was an edge to his voice she had never heard before and she glanced at him in numb surprise. He didn’t look like Foggy, his expression was too fierce, too intense. “Don’t you _dare_ die, Matthew Murdock.” His teeth were clenched almost as hard as his hand around hers.

            Karen looked back in time to see the paddles punch into Matt’s chest again. Again he bucked. Again he flopped into stillness. Again the monitor wailed.

            Alicia glanced uncomfortably from Matt to his two best friends shaking opposite her. Karen caught her eye and felt her fear coalesce into unmovable fury. “Shock him again,” she ordered, her voice low and dangerous. Alien. “Don’t you dare give up on him.”

            The paramedic’s expression was infuriating. How dare she look so understanding, so compassionate, as though she knew what was she and Foggy were feeling? Karen unleashed venom as she spoke again, not caring that this woman was doing her job, not caring that she knew more about all this medical shit and blood loss and shock, not even hearing her placating words – only caring that she held in her hands Matt’s only chance at ever opening his eyes again. “Shock. Him _. Again.”_

            Biting her lips, the paramedic charged the defibrillator for the third time. Every speck of Karen’s being was tight, focused, _willing_ Matt to come back to them, silently commanding him to get his fucking heart beating again or she would _never_ forgive him. She was _not_ about to lose him too.

            “You promised me, you asshole,” Foggy spat into the tension as paddles pressed against flesh. “ _You_ _promised me.”_

            Matt convulsed, then lay still. The monitor droned on.

            “Come on, Matt,” Karen breathed, ferocity fading back to fear. “Come on.”

            It was amazing how such a tight space, bombarded with waves of sound, of sirens and traffic, of creaking metal and shrill monitors, could feel so silent.

            “Don’t, Matt,” Foggy choked, his voice thick and cracking. “Please. Don’t.”

            There had never been a better sound than the staccato beep of an interrupted heart monitor. The tension broke in a wave of relief so profound it made Karen dizzy. Matt’s heart was beating again. He was alive. _Thank God._ Not willing to give him the chance to slip away again, Karen reached out and curled her fingers tightly around his. Foggy clearly had the same idea; his knuckles were pale around Matt’s upper arm.

            Before her heart could settle in the sound of the beeping monitor, the ambulance pulled sharply to the side and slid to a halt. The doors opened and brilliant sunlight blinded her. She squinted, clutching her best friends’ hands more tightly as movement erupted around them. Nurses appeared, helping Alicia pull Matt free of the vehicle, Foggy and Karen clambering to stay with him. They flew through glass doors into halls of white light, voices jabbering jargon around her while she jogged to keep Matt’s hand in hers. Foggy’s grip was broken but he was barely half a step behind her. The crowd around Matt’s gurney – when did that arrive? – swelled as multi-coloured hands rained down over him. Suddenly a frowning Latina woman with short raven hair was blocking Karen’s path and she felt Matt’s hand ripped from her grip. She opened her mouth to argue but the nurse cut across her, telling her she and Foggy had to wait while they saw to Matt, that someone would look them over in a minute. She’d barely finished her sentence before she was swallowed by the grey double doors and the chaos that was trying to save Matthew Murdock’s life faded into the distance. Karen turned to Foggy.

            “What the hell do we do now?”


	4. Foggy

            The waiting room of a hospital had to be the worst place you could possibly be in New York City. Sure, some thug might grab you on your way home, and if you knew something about something you might get tied to a chair and have your fingernails pulled off, but at least that kind of torture didn’t hold back, didn’t hide behind a thin veneer of civility. If some psycho was bashing your face in you could at least swing back at him, maybe draw some blood of your own. At least then you were allowed shout and scream and curse and beg for it to be over.

            Not in a waiting room. In a waiting room you just sit there, frozen. Or your knee bounces in time to your frantic heartrate, your race car thoughts. Here you had to keep quiet. So you didn’t disturb everyone else’s silent hells.

            “Could you stop that?”

            Foggy jumped and glanced over at Karen. He muttered an apology and pressed his bouncing foot flat into the floor. God, how did anyone stand this? It wasn’t just the _waiting_ , not even the complete powerlessness of it. But you couldn’t really wish for it to be over when it might end with something far worse. With some sad-faced doctor shaking his head and saying they did all they could but he just didn’t make it.

            Didn’t make it. As though it was some test. As though there was a test out there Matt Murdock could fail. He always pulled through when it was important. He’d still managed to graduate _summa cum laude_ even after that Greek girl broke his heart. He’d been back on the streets barely two days after bleeding half to death in his own apartment. There was no way one little bullet would kill Matthew Murdock, not when he’d survived so many fists and knives and god knows what else. One little bullet wasn’t going to kill him.

            Right?

            He felt Karen’s hand slide across his shoulders. She pulled him gently closer, her forehead meeting his.

            “He’s gonna be okay, Foggy. It’s gonna be fine.”

            Not trusting his voice, he nodded against her. One little bullet could kill anyone if it hit them in their goddamn heart. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt tears surge upwards. Covering them with one hand he tried to take a deep breath but it caught in his chest with a weird sobbing sound. Karen’s other arm closed around him and she held him closer, whispering that it would be okay. Kinda undermined herself by crying too, though.

 

            Another thing about a waiting room is you can’t spend the whole time crying. Or pacing. Or glowering at the floor going through every swear word you know in every language you can remember. There’s just too much time. Especially when you’re friend’s having freaking heart surgery. Which he might be. Or he might be dead already and the doctor just hadn’t arrived to tell them yet. Or maybe they were stitching him up right now, congratulating each other on pulling another victim back from the brink.

            It was kinda funny to think of Matt as a victim. Ever since the Daredevil thing it was hard to imagine Matt actually being victimised. Even before Foggy knew about his other half, Matt never backed down from a fight. He just used to use his words instead of his fists.

            Unwanted memories were fighting each other in Foggy’s mind. Matt at a bar, trying to convince him to take a shot of some whiskey mutant that had something with a face floating in it. Matt stepping into their dorm room, sweeping his cane around and looking confused while Foggy tried not to laugh at his own brilliance. Matt using his cane to poke Foggy’s stool out of the way just as he sat down and cackling as he fell.

            Matt moaning on his couch as Claire started another stitch. His arms weakly pulling in Foggy’s grip as he tried deliriously to stop the pain.

            Matt blinking at the ceiling, mouth working like a gasping fish as his blood pulsed against Foggy’s fingers.

            Matt dying. Right in front of him.

            “I’m getting coffee, you want some?” He was already on his feet, not glancing at Karen. He half heard her surprised reply but didn’t pause as he tried not to run away.

            There was a coffee machine two corridors to the left, he’d already been there an hour ago. There was a men’s room en route and he ducked into it, almost falling on the sink in his rush to start the water. He scrubbed at his skin, pumping the soap and rubbing it into a fine lather, rinsing it and watching the water turn pink. This was the third – no, fourth – time he’d washed his hands since they’d got here but they were still stained with Matt’s blood. He could still feel it on him like it was trying to suck his skin off. He punched the tap and another white waterfall crashed over his hands. Bubbles replaced suds. Cupping his palms he clapped the cold water onto his face, leaving his hands there as water trickled down his sleeves.

            _Breathe, Nelson._

            He pushed his wet hands through his hair and stared into the mirror. Wow. He looked like shit. The nurses had told them to eat something to help with the shock but the muffin Karen found clearly hadn’t done the trick. You looked white as a sheet when you were in shock, right?

            He leaned forward over the sink, his shoulders hunching as they took his weight. His reflection looked like it belonged to a little kid, not a grown ass man. He scowled at himself.

            “Enough of the helpless act, Nelson,” he said to himself firmly. “There’s nothing you can do to help Matt right now except figure out what the fuck is going on here.” He nodded, determined. “Figure it out. For Nelson and Murdock.”

 

            He returned to Karen with two cups of what was really more lukewarm brown water than coffee in hand. Brett Mahoney was standing in front of her. This was probably the first time he’d ever seen Brett and felt truly relieved. He sat down next to Karen as Brett adjusted his grip on the pencil poised over a little black pad. God, she was pale too. He held her cup out to her and stared meaningfully at it until she took a sip, then looked back to Brett.

            “You here as a loving and supportive friend or as one of New York’s finest?” he asked, only half joking. He could see Brett actively avoiding rolling his eyes and despite himself he felt a bit better. It was good to know even in the depths of waiting room torment he could still annoy the sergeant.

            “I’ll give you three guesses. Now you mind closing your trap so your colleague here can finish giving me her statement?” He nodded to Karen, who took another sip of ‘coffee’ before speaking.

            “There’s not much else to give. We were talking, Matt walked over to Foggy’s office, and then he was on the ground. Bleeding.” She took another hurried sip.

            Brett nodded, frowning. He turned to Foggy. “Anything you wanna add?”

            Foggy shook his head. “That’s what happened.”

            “What about after? After he,” he shifted his weight and clenched his jaw, “hit the ground?”

            “He told us to stay down. Figured there’d be another shot. I’d barely registered what’d happened.”

            “Still listened to him though?”

            Foggy smiled wistfully. “Matt has this tone sometimes.”

            “Think it’s the first time I ever heard him shout,” Karen added.

            Brett shifted his weight again, nodding. “Then what happened?”

            “Then I saw the blood, thought ‘screw it’ and grabbed him. Pulled him into my office. Dragged my desk over as a shield and got pressure on the wound. Karen called the ambulance.”

            The pencil twiddled over the narrow page. “And you didn’t see anything outside? Hear anything?”

            “Nope. Just the glass breaking I guess.”

            “And there weren’t any more shots?”

            “No, don’t think so.”

            Brett nodded again with a look on his face that Foggy recognised. “What? What are you thinking?”

            He closed his pad and looked around the waiting room before meeting Foggy’s gaze. “Well, this ain’t exactly a hard one to figure. What happened today was –”

            “A hit.” Foggy glanced at Karen. Now that she said it was beyond obvious, but it didn’t answer the big question.

            “What I don’t get is why someone would wanna shoot a blind lawyer in a firm that’s had like, two cases.” The corner of Brett’s mouth twitched at his jab but died at the sight of Foggy’s expression.

            _Holy shit._

            “Unless,” Brett continued, “it was _about_ one of those cases.”

“Fisk,” Foggy breathed. He looked from Karen to Brett. Karen’s eyes were wide, her brow furrowed as she thought it through.

            “You really think he’d pull something like this? From jail?”

            “It’s not like the guy’s short on resources,” Foggy mused. “Or assholes with itchy trigger fingers.”

            “No, that doesn’t make any sense,” Karen cut across him. “No, think about it. Why shoot Matt? Why _only_ shoot Matt? Why not kill all three of us? And if they wanted us dead, why would they use a sniper? Why not a gas explosion, something that looks innocent, some tragedy that doesn’t lead the NYPD to his cell block?”

            _Oh no._ She was right. It wasn’t Fisk. _Oh shit._

            Foggy felt himself turn paler as her logic unveiled another possibility. He barely heard Brett answer. “You’ve got a good point there. It’s clearly an option we’d consider. But if not Fisk’s people, then who?” he pressed. “You sure you guys haven’t any ... controversial cases open?”

“We’ve been looking into a company we think is smuggling in guns and ammo,” Karen said slowly. “They set one of their employees up and fired him. Said he saw guns in the containers he was meant to be loading before the cops showed up.”

            “Which company?”

            “Sea Fairer Transport. We’re suing them for unlawful termination but one of the threads we pulled was wrapped around a whole lot of firepower.”

            Foggy wasn’t listening. What had Karen just said? Why _only_ shoot Matt _?_ If it was a case that sparked this then he’d have a bullet in him now too, wouldn’t he? He’d been standing right where Matt was shot not a minute before it happened. Whoever did it must have seen him. Foggy swallowed hard. He could only think of one reason why someone would attack Nelson and Murdock. And only one reason why they’d only try to kill the Murdock half.

            This was a hit.

            Someone had figured it out.

            Someone knew Matt was Daredevil.

            _Shit._


	5. Karen

            Brett listened to everything they had on Sea Fairer Transport. Then he told them the docks they were investigating were the same ones the devil of Hell’s Kitchen had spent the last few nights probing. He’d left crates crammed with illegal weapons and ammo for the NYPD to lock up, along with a holding-cell full of goons, a few of whom were still handcuffed to beds upstairs in Metro-General. It wasn’t enough to prove their involvement with the guns or the shooting, but it was a few more pieces of the puzzle.

            Brett decided quickly not to take any chances. He stayed just outside the waiting room, claiming it was protocol to offer protective custody after a shooting like this, but Karen knew that wasn’t the whole truth. Any time Matt was mentioned his jaw – and fists – would clench. He wanted some good news too.

            Matt. It had been hours since he’d been wheeled away. They still hadn’t heard a thing. Karen told herself that was a good sign, that it meant he was still in surgery. Still alive. Anxiety and numbing dread coiled like warring snakes in her stomach, writhing into knots of nauseous tension. She took sips of the water pretending to be coffee in a vain attempt to drown the snakes. Or maybe it was just her desperate need for something to do. This passive waiting was agony.

            She looked over to Foggy. It was starting to look like his worried frown was permanent. He’d been silent a long time now. She nudged his elbow. He started.

            “What?”

            “You’re looking kinda green there, counsellor.”

            He snorted. “Nah I feel great. Day like this? I could burst into song any second.”

            Karen chuckled. How did he do that? They were in Metro-General waiting to hear if his best friend, her boyfriend, was dead or not and he was making her laugh. She slipped her hand around his elbow and leaned her head against his shoulder.

            “You need a back-up dancer, I got you.” He snorted again and she felt his cheek press against her head.

            “I’m holding you to that next time we’re at Josie’s.”

            That made her smile again. Josie’s. Would they be back there celebrating a narrow escape or at another wake? She frowned, banishing the thought. She couldn’t think like that, she couldn’t. Matt would be okay. He had to be.

            They sat there, linked, for a long time. Both of them needed the other’s comfort, needed to feel the steady beat of a heart that wasn’t bleeding. At least not literally.

            A near-silent buzz against Karen’s leg broke the embrace. She glanced down to her handbag, wedged between her thigh and Foggy’s, fitting neatly under the floating armrest. Habit made her reach for the phone inside, knowing it couldn’t possibly have anything important to report. Brett was right outside, if the cops had any breaks they wouldn’t call her.

            It was a text. Withheld number. Karen frowned as she unlocked the screen to read it.

 

                        _Keep digging, keep burying friends._

 

            “What is it?”

            She shook her head, turning the screen to face him. She watched his frown deepen for a moment before – did he look _relieved?_ What the hell?

            “Well I guess that confirms our theory,” he said, still looking weirdly calm. “Has to be the Sea Fairer people, right?”

            “I ... guess ...” This made no sense. Why message her? Why link the case to the shooting? Wasn’t that just them condemning themselves? How did they expect to fend off the cops that would come sniffing around them now they’d shot a lawyer?

            “Foggy, why the hell would they send me this?”

            It didn’t take him long to catch up to her train of thought. “Yeah, it is a bit indicting, don’tcha think? And why not send it to me, you’re not the one suing them. Kinda backs them into a corner.”

            _Oh shit._ But she _was_ the one snooping around their other fired employees. She was the one tugging on a much bloodier thread than Sea Fairer Transport’s gun running. She glanced from the phone to Foggy, wondering how much to say. This wasn’t just about a lawsuit or a transport company. _Keep digging, keep burying friends._ This wasn’t about Nelson and Murdock. This was about her.

            The snakes in her gut hissed and coiled tighter and for a moment she was sure she was about to throw up. _Oh, god, it’s my fault. I did this._

She looked back to Foggy, her mouth open to confess why his best friend was lying on an operating table. Foggy’s eyebrows leapt from a frown into surprise as his gaze shifted behind her. Imagining a pistol, Karen whirled around, hair flying.

            She and Foggy leapt to their feet as the doctor stepped forward.

            “Matthew Murdock?” she confirmed.

            “Yeah, that’s us,” Foggy hurried, “Ho-how is he?”

            “He’s alive,” the doctor said, smiling.

            Karen heaved an almighty sigh of intense relief and felt Foggy deflate beside her.

            “He’s alive?” he confirmed, his eyes looking incredibly young.

            “He is,” the doctor continued. “He’s a tough one. There were a few complications during surgery, and he’d lost a lot of blood, but he’s pulled through.”

            “What kind of complications?”

            “Well, the bullet was no doubt aimed for his heart, but it missed by about an inch. Either the shooter wasn’t as good a shot as he thought or Matthew moved at exactly the right moment. It still did plenty of damage though, and punctured his left lung.”

            “That’s why he couldn’t breathe.”

            “Yes. His lung filled with blood pretty soon after, which would have made it very difficult to draw breath. The bullet went through one of his ribs so there were a few bone fragments getting in the way as well.” She paused and smiled at them, reaching out to pat Foggy’s arm. “But we got it all fixed up, stopped all the bleeding and gave him a transfusion. We have him on a ventilator for now, just to make things easier while he comes out of the anaesthetic. And we’re pumping him with antibiotics. We’ll be keeping a close eye on him for the next few days, but, considering? He’s doing good. Real good.”

            Karen took what felt like the first real breath she’d had in days. Matt was okay. Matt was alive. Too relieved to sort through everything the doctor had just said, she asked the only question that mattered right then.

            “Can we see him?”

 

            He was in a private room. Brett busied himself stationing two cops on the doors and waved them in without him, Karen’s phone in one hand and a frown pinching his brows. The doctor, Dr. Garcia, had left them at the threshold, telling them nurses would be checking in regularly but they were welcome to wait with him for now.

            The room was dimly lit. Quiet, save the heart monitor’s muted beeping and the steady rattle of the ventilator. Matt lay on the bed, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in time to the ventilator’s mechanical breath. The blue tube was taped to his mouth, the only spark of colour in the monochrome scene. An IV was taped to his left forearm.

            Karen stepped forward as though in a dream. She couldn’t move her eyes from him. He wasn’t as deathly pale as he had been in the ambulance but what colour he’d regained didn’t soften the image. Thick bandages were taped to his chest. They’d cleaned him up; there was no sign of the blood that had drenched him before. Karen frowned as she drew level with him, barely aware of Foggy mirroring her on the other side of the bed. The scars were still there. She hadn’t imagined them. They looked worse now, unhidden by the blood. Pink ridges of puckered skin. How the hell did they get there?

            Her gaze rose to his sleeping face and she felt tears burn behind her eyes. He looked ... almost peaceful. Like he was just taking a nap. It didn’t make sense, what with the pale blue tube stuck down his throat, but his face was weirdly calm. But even unconscious he looked exhausted. Shadows under his eyes, his cheeks seeming hollowed in the low light. Sniffing back her tears she leaned down and kissed his forehead, as gently as she could. She allowed her lips to linger on his warm skin for a long moment as her hand reached for his. She didn’t think she’d ever been so thankful to see anyone in her life.

            “Hey Matt,” she whispered as she pulled away, sniffing again. “It’s Foggy and Karen. We’re right here, okay? We’re right here. I’m so sorry.”


	6. Karen

            “I can’t believe you’ve been doing all that without telling us.” Foggy’s dejected voice matched his downcast, exhausted eyes. “It’s like Fisk all over again.”

            Karen’s gaze fell to her hands cupped around Matt’s. Her heart shuddered against the sting of his words. As if she was the only liar in that office. But he had a point. She glanced to Matt’s still, grey-tinged face. He had all the points, right now.

            “I’m really sorry, Foggy,” she said quietly, her fingers curling a might tighter around Matt’s. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you guys, but ...”

            “But you knew if we knew about it we’d tell you to stop.”

            She couldn’t help the guilty smile steal across her face. “Well ... kinda.”

            Foggy huffed a laugh and smiled up at her. “It’s not like it’s the first time one of us has gone off on their own.” His gaze slid to his best friend. “Or the first time one of us has gotten hurt because of it.”

            Karen’s brows twitched together. Was he talking about Matt’s ‘car accident’? Had that been connected to Fisk? Foggy looked up before she could school her expression and clarified, his tone adopting that evasive lilt she’d come to associate with Matt’s secret.

            “I mean, you got shot at, that Union Allied psycho tried to get you and that file, so,” he looked hurriedly back to the IV in Matt’s arm. “We just, as a firm, tend to get a little ... careless.”

            “I prefer to think of it as _ambitious_.”

            Foggy’s laugh was cut short as he remembered Matt, lying with a breathing tube stuck down in his throat between them. How had this day ended so unbelievably differently from coffee and banter this morning?

            Well. She knew how.

            “This is all my fault, Foggy,” she said again, needing to give voice to the compressing weight settled over her heart. “I should’ve seen it coming,” she continued, drowning his kind-hearted objection, “I should have been more careful, you’re right.” She laughed humourlessly as she remembered all those lunch time trips to the welfare office, the interviews with the families of the men Sea Fairer Transport had fired, the spontaneous strategy meetings with Ellison. “I thought I was being so clever, figuring all this out. Was even gonna publish it, or try to, in the Bulletin. Ben’s editor, Ellison. He was helping me with it.”

            “Be a good story,” Foggy offered quietly. “It’s got everything. Danger, intrigue, an evil corporation exploiting the little guy, firepower ...” He nodded to Matt. “Even the suspense of a life-and-death catastrophe.”

            The weight curled tighter around her heart. A malicious beast guarding its hoard.

            “You have to believe me, Foggy, I never would have –”

            “Karen,” he stopped her, frowning. “If you think for a second I blame you for this, no offence, but you’re kind of an idiot. This wasn’t your fault. I know you didn’t want this to happen.”

            “But if I hadn’t –”

            “If you hadn’t gotten your weird, bloodhound-on-the-scent focus on this case,” he cut across her, his face serious, his tone firm, “then those Sea Fairer shitbags would just be getting more and more confident and before you know it they’d be putting all those guns to use.” He locked his gaze on Karen’s wide, unsure eyes. “If you hadn’t pieced all this together then they would keep firing anyone on their payroll who had a conscience, burying their reports and, what was that last thing they were doing?” he asked in a mock-thoughtful voice, glancing ponderously away for a moment. “Oh yeah. I remember now. _Killing_ anyone who even _walked past_ a police station.”

            “But Matt – Foggy I got him shot, I –”

            “ _You_ didn’t get him anything, Miss Page,” he cut across her, his face stern. “You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t ask for this. And honestly?” he continued, adopting a mock-horrified tone, “trying to steal a Catholic guy’s guilt? Now _that_ is crossing a line. Guilt is like, _all_ he has.” He managed to keep his expression serious for about three seconds before he cracked.

            His eyes met hers once again, levity replaced with sincerity. They were so steady, so sure. Reliable. Trusting. Just like he was.

            “You did the right thing Karen. And I don’t just mean by bringing a pretty awesome case complete with one-percenter conspiracy to your beloved law firm. You hadn’t found all this out, people would still be dying. And our friend in the red PJ’s would have his work cut out for him trying to karate chop all those gun runners into jail. Or, y’know,” he chuckled, drawing a smile through her frown, “however he does what he does.”

            She nodded, dropping her gaze. Foggy’s chair screeched as he pushed it back, getting to his feet.

            “Besides,” he added, pulling his blazer from the back of the chair. “The only person responsible for this is the asshole who pulled the trigger. And maybe the asshole who told him to.” He shrugged into the jacket, tapping the pockets once it settled over his broad shoulders. “But, unfortunately for them, they will be incarcerated assholes once Nelson and Murdock are through with them, no longer able to perform their assholery. Right, buddy?” he finished brightly, looking down at Matt as though expecting him to wake up and agree. His face fell as he took in the tubes, the bandages, the greyish tinge to the usually so alert face. “Well, anyway.” His voice was lower, sadder than Karen had heard it since the night of Elena’s wake and she felt her heart shudder for him.

            He looked up to her, his expression suddenly cheery, though his eyes remained shaded by sorrow. “I am going down to the cafeteria to procure us a fine, nutritious meal of jello and fruit cups.” He tapped the end of Matt’s bed as he stepped toward the door. “Be back soon, buddy.”

            The silence expanded once the door clicked shut, save the steady rattling whir of the ventilator. Karen stared at the man who had always made her feel safe, her hands unsteady around his. She didn’t feel safe now. Barbed hooks of disgust curled through her, twisting her stomach into bleeding, nauseous knots, piercing her heart so that it ached and stung with every beat. She held Matt’s hand tighter, trying to coerce a lungful of air through the labyrinth of spurs which choked her chest. She looked to his face, forcing herself to see every detail; the thick, expressive eyebrows, the ever-hidden eyes, the lips whose smile always warned her heart, lips which were so soft, so gentle against her own ...

            And here he was, lying in a hospital bed, unable to breathe for himself – this man, whose independence was one of his greatest prides, one of his many mysteries, a part of the reason she had been so drawn to him all those months ago. She had done this to him. Foggy was right, she hadn’t pulled the trigger. But she knew that didn’t absolve her of responsibility. If she hadn’t been so reckless, so cocky, Matt would not be lying here, unresponsive, with a bullet wound bleeding from his breast while all she could do was hold a hand he probably couldn’t even feel –

            Her hands flew to her face in a vain attempt to silence the sob she felt cut its way up her throat. Tears welled behind her closed eyes and she pressed her palms into them, willing the tears away. Her breath came in gasps with a violence to them, bursting through her chest like tiny, invisible punches.

            Why hadn’t they just killed her? Then all their secrets would’ve died with her, and Matt would be fine, he’d be safe, he’d be ... heartbroken. And Foggy. And all those families of Sea Fairer’s victims would continue to grieve in mute confusion, never understanding why the person they loved was taken from them, and Sea Fairer would just go on, smuggling guns, killing anyone who got in their way, writing their profits in blood.

            The ventilator sucked in another clattering breath for Matthew Murdock. It rattled into a moment’s silence before starting another mechanical wheeze. Karen focused on the sound. She let it fill the room, fill her mind until she could almost count the tiny ticking hitches as air was gathered and pushed from the hidden pump. She let it ease her own shaking gasps, measured her breathing to Matt’s. Slowly, she lowered her now steady hands back to the bed, scooping Matt’s lax fingers tenderly into her gentle grip.

            Her eyes fell on the thick pink scar curling around his uncovered side. She reached out, running her thumb along its puckered length, her brow furrowing. How does a blind man get a scar like this? She looked up, taking in the other angry slices slashed across his torso, his chest. Now that she was paying attention she found another on the underside of his forearm. She turned his hand gently to see the two-inch line of raised flesh more clearly. How does a blind man get so _many_ scars like that?

            This was part of the secret. The thing Matt did or had done to him that Foggy had lied about and covered up almost as often as Matt had himself. The missing piece of the puzzle of Matthew Murdock ...

            She sat back, thinking, her mind eager for the distraction, for any distraction. It wasn’t a fight club. There’s no way Matt could get as beat up as he did as often as he did and never land a single punch. She’d made a habit of checking his knuckles for scabs ever since the lie about the car accident, long before she’d been allowed to hold them, run her fingers over them. He’d never had so much as a scratch on his fists.

            Okay, so not a fight club. What else?

            Alcoholism? One of Foggy’s excuses. But these were too clean to be from a drunken brawl with some asshole wielding a broken beer bottle. Frequent break-ins didn’t make sense either, the rest of the building would’ve been targeted too, it couldn’t just be Matt’s apartment over and over again. And besides, his torso, those _abs,_ how did a blind man who went on the occasional walk get this fit? She knew he was thin, but this level of muscle went along with boxers and health nuts, not blind guys who lived off cheap take-out and spent most of the working day in an office chair.

            What was it about Matthew Murdock then? These scars, they weren’t like anything she’d ever seen before. These were the kind of scars you got if you were slashed with a serious blade. The rounded mound lower on his side looked like a stab wound. They weren’t that old either, so they couldn’t have been from that accident when he was a kid, even if that accident had drawn blood. Most of them were still that pinkish hue of healing scar tissue; only two of them had faded to the pale beige that would be invisible against his skin were it not for their size.

            How could he get these? How could he get _only_ these, if he kept getting into whatever situation left him so bruised and bloodied? Did he fight back, somehow, or was it some weird tied-down kink shit she didn’t want to think about? How could he have been hiding these under his immaculate shirts all this time? Some of them must have been still raw and bleeding when he was in the office, this big one on his side must have been there from the car accident, must’ve been why he walked so gingerly that day. He just, what, came to work with a bunch of Band Aids and hoped he didn’t bleed through his shirts?

            This didn’t make any sense. These were the kind of scars you got from a freaking knife fight, not from falling down stairs or walking into poles or any of the other bullshit lies he’d told her. These were the kind of scars Daredevil would have from before he got that armoured suit, the kind you got if you took on the Russian mob and Wilson Fisk and –

            Karen froze.

            _These are the kind of scars Daredevil would have. These are the kind of muscles Daredevil would have._

            She shook her head, frowning hard. _Don’t be ridiculous,_ she berated herself. _Matt can’t be Daredevil. He’s blind for god’s sake!_

            Unless ... She thought back. There were so many moments, so small you didn’t think anything of them until you strung them together ... so many moments where Matt Murdock didn’t seem blind. The way he reached across the table to squeeze her arm when she confided in him. So sure, so smooth. So unlike how his fingers would search for his coffee or his cane. As though he just _knew_ where her arm was, even if she never made a sound placing it. The way he could find her lips so easily when he kissed her, judging the distance better than plenty of her exes, never accidentally head-butting her or kissing her nose by mistake ... The way his finger had traced that raindrop up her arm. He had _known_ exactly where her arm was, how she was standing. He always seemed to.

            It was like he could see her.

            But then, he would fumble sometimes reaching for her elbow, or Foggy’s, to guide him. He’d always reach his hands out in the office, searching for the door frame. His eyes would never be looking right at her behind his rose glasses, never so much as a glance to her eyes.

            She looked back to his face, her frown deepening. He always seemed blind ... except in those private moments together. When he was out of his routine, caught up in her stories. Whenever he was spontaneous, he never seemed blind.

            The ventilator rattled another breath through his sleeping lungs. He looked completely innocent like this and, ironically, it was only increasing her suspicion. Was it possible Matt wasn’t even blind? Or was it possible he was, but also wasn’t? Could it be possible he really was the Man in the Mask, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?

            There was one thing New York had taught her since she arrived here, with its aliens and giant green steroid ads and murderous kids who grew into puppeteers controlling the entire city: anything is possible.


	7. Foggy

            Matt was only supposed to almost die at _night_. That was the unspoken deal, right? He’d arrive in the morning with a new black eye and a split lip, and Foggy would wonder what worse injuries his shirts were hiding, and then at night he’d crawl into that damn costume and sneak around the streets getting into fights. It was at night he was in danger, _at night_ he’d be beaten up and stabbed and shot, and it was only in the mornings that Foggy would quietly freak out, wondering if Matt was late because he overslept or because he was lying in a pool of his own blood in his apartment again, or already dead in some dank alley, waiting for some poor shmuck to find him.

            He was supposed to be _safe_ during daylight hours. That was the deal.

            He was _not_ supposed to almost die on the floor of their _office,_ where he was just Matt Murdock, attorney at law. He was _not_ supposed to bleed out under Foggy’s useless goddamn hands three feet from his fucking _diploma._

            He added the fruit cups and sandwiches to his tray with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and they skittered in fear across the damp surface as though trying to escape. Forcing himself to take a deep breath he steadied the spinning pot of raspberry jello, adding a grape one with more care. No point taking his anger out on the confectionary. It’s not like _they’d_ shot Matt.

            His hand curled into an automatic fist as he thought that. Someone had _shot_ Matt, had purposefully camped out on a freaking roof, had intentionally trained his little sniper eyes on _his best friend_ and _pulled the goddamn trigger._ Some royal asswipe had shot a blind guy in the chest. Sure, Matt wasn’t _blind_ blind, but the shooter didn’t know that! God, if he ever got his hands on that piece of shit he’d make sure the motherfucker needed the ICU before the handcuffs.

            Whoa. Foggy caught himself, one hand stretched out for a bottle of water. He wanted to beat someone up. Before incarcerating them. Because they’d hurt someone he cared about. _Shit._ Is this how Matt felt? Is this what it was like for him, all the time? This _anger_ for the person who would destroy a life – multiple lives – just because they wanted to, or were paid to, or whatever the hell his deal was. This pounding ferocity to make sure they wouldn’t hurt anyone else. He could feel rage pulse through him, twitching excitedly in each muscle, eager for a violent release _._

            He gave his head a shake, banishing the thought. No. This was different. This was his best friend for god’s sake. Matt went out beating people up for strangers. Which, Foggy did have to admit, was noble. In its own illegal kind of way. He heaved a sigh as he paid for his tray, not paying attention to the transaction. He was too tired to go through all this again. Too bone-weary to try to understand Daredevil. His head ached, eyes squinting in the unobtrusive light. His skull felt more like it was full of wet cake than a brain at this point. He needed rest. He needed this horrific day to end, and end with Matt waking up, with no brain injuries or clinical confusion or any of the other nightmares Foggy’s mind relentlessly conjured out of the half-forgotten ether of that medical drama Marci used to watch.

            He almost walked past her, too lost in his quagmire thoughts to hear her call his name. The waving hand caught his eye and he blinked, smiling in surprise.

            “Claire? What are you doing here?” She was sitting with a scraped pot of yoghurt lying on its side around a teaspoon, her hair loose around a face that looked only marginally less wrecked than Foggy felt. “Wait, stupid question,” added a beat later. “You, y’know, work here, it’s normal for you to be here. But then, you knew that. I –“ He stopped himself and rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Hi Claire.”

            At least his trademark rambling had made her smile. God, she was hot.

            “Hi Foggy. What’re you doing here?” She glanced to the tray piled high with packaged food and back to the bags under his eyes. “Is it – it’s not – did Matt get hurt again?”

            Suddenly feeling like a forgetful dick he deflated around another sigh and sat down in the chair opposite Claire’s worried expression.

            “Yeah, he is.”

            Her eyebrows raised. “Sun went down like, an hour ago. What the hell happened? How is he?”

            Foggy had a brief staring contest with an egg salad sandwich. The thought of going through it all again made him feel suddenly heavy, as though the words he knew Claire deserved to hear weighed down his suddenly sagging chest. He wasn’t sure the air would be strong enough to sail them across the table. He took a deep breath, and tried.

            “He wasn’t –” he glanced around, checking the near-empty cafeteria for anyone within earshot. Just the vending machines. “He wasn’t ... Daredeviling. We were in our office, downtown, and – and we were just joking about him being late this morning, ‘cause we have this case and ...”

            His throat closed around the words as memory solidified behind his eyes. He wasn’t seeing the raven-haired woman opposite him anymore, or the shades of grey that made up the hospital cafeteria. He saw half of Matt leaning against his office wall, the door jamb cutting his image in two and erasing Karen. They were flirting again, of course, but it still gave Foggy’s heart a lift to see Matt like that. He hadn’t looked like that around a girl since college.

            But they had a case to prep and he could make his blind googly eyes at his girlfriend on his own time, so Foggy called something sarcastic to get Matt’s attention. There had been another joke, and Matt was laughing as he pushed off from the fax’s shelf and made for Foggy’s office. He’d glanced down to the file then so he hadn’t seen it happen. He just heard a _crack_ and looked up, half-expecting to see Karen standing over a fragmented mug of coffee. But Matt had stopped mid-sentence. And there was blood on his shirt.

            Before that image could make sense he’d fallen down hard, gagging as his breath was punched out of him. Foggy leapt to his feet and stopped dead at his door as Matt yelled at Karen to stay where she was. That was when he’d seen the rounded break in the glass and years of living within earshot of gunfire kicked in. He ducked, keeping one hand on the door jamb, his eyes darting from the sun-soaked window to Matt, whose chest kept jerking as though he couldn’t breathe.

            “... he was just walking into my office.” The words felt hollow, disconnected from the horror they described. “And then he was bleeding, on the floor.”

            Claire’s voice broke over him like a wave and only then did he realise her hand was laid comfortingly over his wrist. “He just collapsed? Had he been acting normal before?”

            He shook his head, understanding how he’d made it sound. He needed to be clearer.

            “No. He –” The patch of red swelled against the white shirt. Matt’s hand half raised to touch it. His mouth open. Frowning, confused. “He was shot.”

            “Shot?” Claire was quiet for a moment, her hand pulling away as she leant back in her seat. “Shot as in someone found out?”

            Foggy shook his head, smiling humourlessly. “It has nothing to do with Daredevil. Sounds crazy. First thing I thought was someone figured it out, but no. It was this case we’re investigating. Karen – our secretary – got too close to big secrets so they were trying to, I dunno, frighten her off.”

            “Then why not shoot her? Why Matt?”

            He met her frustrated gaze and shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe it was just a warning shot. We got cops outside Matt’s door, and Karen and I aren’t supposed to leave without an escort.”

            He pressed a hand against his forehead, wishing his headache would back off for five minutes.

            “I heard a lawyer came in with a GSW earlier,” Claire said thoughtfully. “My friend Louisa was working on him in the OR. Never thought it could be Matt. How’s he doing?”

            Foggy shrugged, letting his hands slap down to the table.

            “Dunno. Okay I guess? He’s got a breathing tube. Doc said the surgery went well, considering. Just waiting for him to wake up I guess.”

            “You planning on camping out with him till he does?” she asked with a smile, nodding at the pile of cartons and tubs stacked on his tray.

            He snorted. “Yep. Spared no expense. This grand feast will fuel me and Karen through the night.” The humour bled from his tone. “It’s gonna be a long one.”

            Claire clapped her hands down on the table and pushed herself up in a flurry of determination. “Well, not alone you’re not. I’m on rounds till eight tomorrow, I can keep an eye on you.”

            Foggy felt his heart warm as a genuine smile pulled at his lips. “Thanks Claire.” He rose to his feet, grabbed the tray, and followed her back to the patient rooms. He held the tray out to her. “Fruit cup?”


	8. Foggy

            Foggy had always known nurses were the unsung heroes of any city, but after watching them work close-up, he’d developed a new level of appreciation for their particular brand of awesome. Even floors above the chaos of the ER they were stretched thin, their expressions draped in shades of weariness. That didn’t stop Claire and Louisa, Matt’s other nurse, blowing Foggy’s mind with their skilled efficiency and compassion. Despite having god knows how many patients, Claire made time to bug him and Karen about eating real, non-hospital food, ask about the case, the investigation. And the way she handled Matt, how she adjusted the IVs and changed the dressings on the wound, just erased so much of Foggy’s fear. She was so gentle, taking extra care, Foggy suspected, to account for Matt’s heightened sensitivity. He’d already seen her stem and stitch dire wounds, knew she’d have no trouble resetting bones and that her task focus when patching Matt up was just plain impressive. But he hadn’t noticed last time how compassionate she was. Admittedly, he had been a bit distracted with the whole best-friend-being-a-lying-vigilante thing, but now that he had time to watch her work without a buttload of blood in the way, his admiration for her grew.

            Plus, she had a distinct air about her that if some runaway thug got uppity with her, she’d kick his ass with clinical precision. And then probably stitch him up.

            It was easy to see why Matt trusted her.

            Foggy leaned back in his armchair – Claire had hooked them up with two chairs with actual padding – stretching his arms behind his neck and grimacing as his shoulders popped. Slumping back down he pointed the remote at the ancient TV and started another flick-through, looking for something decent. Cooking show, nah. Some reality dating thing, no thank you. A news flash about some home invasion uptown, also nah. Ooh, a baseball game! Oh it was some High School club match. Still, baseball was baseball. He narrated it for Matt, livening it up with his expert commentary.

            “That was honestly the worst pitch I have ever seen in my life – it’s like he was just stretching and forgot the ball was in his hand. Ooh, nice recovery though and damn, that boy is fast! Must be the lightning bolts on his sneakers.”

            He glanced over to Matt, looking for a reaction. Still unconscious. Looked a little better though. Bit more colour. The lack of ventilator was a huge improvement, though taking it out had been a nightmare. Foggy shuddered remembering Matt convulse slightly as the tube was pulled out. Not fun. The oxygen mask strapped to his face now looked infinitely more comfortable, plus the fact that he was breathing well enough to step down from the tube was reassuring. Claire had estimated he’d wake up before she clocked back in later tonight, so now the waiting game had an end encouragingly in sight.

            He and Karen had taken turns running home for showers and fresh clothes, escorted by NYPD cops, which was all kinds of weird. Made Foggy wish he’d hidden the family photos on the cabinet in the living room. No unsuspecting cop should have to see a teenage Foggy trying and utterly failing to look cool with an AC/DC shirt and Guitar Hero. Complete with lolling tongue and gang sign.

            He checked his watch as one of the hitters struck out. Karen should be back soon. She’d had him promise on his law degree he’d call her if anything with Matt changed. Foggy was kind of glad he’d stayed unconscious while they were dashing home. Neither one of them wanted to leave him alone. Foggy didn’t like the idea of Matt waking up with an aching chest surrounded by hospital smells. Even without his fancy senses, that would be rough.

            Bored with the game, he switched the TV off and leant forward in his chair, looking at Matt. His sudden urge to find a Sharpie and draw a monocle on his sleeping friend was interrupted by Karen gusting through the door in a flurry of haste.

            “Hey, sorry I took so long. How is he, any change?”

            It took Foggy a moment to adjust to her mild frenzy of handbags and armful of flowers. “Uh, hey. No, no change. Looks a bit better though I think?”

            She turned her gaze to the complexion in question, her pinched brow smoothing with a delicate smile. “Yeah. Yeah, he looks better.” She leant down and kissed his forehead. “Hey Matt. I’m back.”

            Foggy cleared his throat, abruptly feeling awkward. “Those flowers, they for him?” he asked quickly, eager to shift the atmosphere away from the romantic.

            Karen placed them carefully on the bedside table. “Uh, yeah. Figured it’d be nice for him to have something, y’know, non-hospitaly to smell when he makes up. Take the edge of all the antiseptics.”

            Well wasn’t she adorable. “That’s really sweet. He’ll like that.” Especially with the whole supersmell thing. “And I picked him up some clothes when I was out, so, he won’t have to wear those scratchy gowns and have his ass hang out.” That earned him a chuckle.

            “Any other news about the case?” she asked as she settled into her chair.

            Foggy almost managed not to groan. “Brett came by about an hour ago. Office is still a crime scene so on the bright side we’ve the day off. Probably tomorrow too. Bad news is they haven’t found anything useful yet.”

            “Nothing on Sea Fairer?”

            “Nothing solid enough to arrest anyone. Besides, they don’t know who to arrest yet anyway. Apparently the CEO’s been living in the south of Spain for the last, like, three years, and the regional manager hasn’t returned their calls.” Exasperation heaved itself out of his lungs in a flopping sigh that made him want to yawn. “For now their hands are tied. Ballistics on the bullet didn’t help much, apart from confirming they used the same untraceable Hammer guns Daredevil busted the other night.”

            He was carefully glancing at his hands as he said this, and so missed the attentive gleam in Karen’s eyes sharpen.

            “Speaking of Daredevil,” she began cautiously. “Looks like he wasn’t out last night. Thought we’d hear about another gun bust or something.”

            Foggy swallowed. Nerves tingled up his spine. “Yeah, well, maybe he was out and we didn’t hear about it. Brett didn’t mention any convenient arrests.” Did he sound casual? He doubted it.

            “You ever wonder about him? Daredevil?” Karen asked innocently.

            “What, like, who he is?”

            “Yeah. Or how he does it.”

            Foggy had a sudden mental image of a mouse sniffing at an enormous block of cheese on a pressure pad. “Yeah, I guess.” _That’s good_ , he thought to himself encouragingly. _Just keep it vague._

            Karen stared at her fingertips for a long moment.

            “You ever wonder about Matt?”

            _Oh crap._ “What do you mean?”

            She nodded towards his sleeping form between them. “Those scars. Can’t see how someone with a drinking problem gets scars like that.”

            _Oh_ crap. He’d been really, _really_ hoping she wouldn’t bring up the scars. How had he still not come up with a story for them?

            “Yeah, they’re, um ... they’re strange.” How had he gotten a law degree again? “I, um, forgot they were there,” he lied quickly, trying to dig a trench out of this hole he was sinking into. “Think he mentioned them once, a long time ago. Got them when he was a kid.”

            Karen’s eyebrow raised. Why couldn’t he have found a nice _gullible_ secretary? One who didn’t care so much about the truth and being consistently lied to by her best friends? Would that have been so hard? He avoided her gaze, rubbing a non-existent stain from the bed rail in front of him.

            “Foggy.”

            _Don’t look up, don’t look up, that’s a trap, don’t look up –_

            “Foggy?”

            It was not fair she got to use that tone. How was anyone supposed to resist that tone? It was like the sonic equivalent of a freaking puppy.

            He looked up. And instantly regretted it.

            She had that _look_ in her eye. That gleam that meant she’d gotten her teeth around a corner of the truth and wasn’t gonna let go for anything. Like a freaking rottweiler.

            “Foggy,” she began, her voice tentative but determined. “Is Matt ... Matt’s Daredevil, isn’t he?”

            Foggy blinked. Whoa. How the hell did she – who the hell could figure – did he hear that right?

            “What? Matt? He’s –”

            “He’s Daredevil. Isn’t he?”

            How the hell did she sound that sure?

            “Matt’s blind, Karen,” he started, wondering how the hell he was gonna finish.

            “Is he?” she cut across him. “Is he blind the way we think he is?”

            “What do you mean?” _Please god let her not see all this flop sweat._

            “I mean, is he really blind?”

            “Well, yeah –”

            “Is he blind like Helen Keller and Ray Charles and Andrea Bocelli?”

            “He’s –”

            “Foggy!” He jumped at her sudden volume. “Just stop lying to me!”

            They were both silent for a moment as she took a deep breath.

            “I just asked if your blind best friend was a martial arts vigilante and you didn’t deny it. Even though it’s about the craziest thing I’ve heard since the Incident. So please, Foggy. Just stop lying.”

            Foggy swallowed, considering. He looked at Matt, still down for the count. He had promised him he wouldn’t tell Karen. But then, confirming wasn’t telling. Screw it.

            “Okay. Okay. He’s Daredevil.”

            Her eyes searched his face with uncanny intensity. When she finally blinked it seemed to shatter the wall that’d been forced between them since the night Elena died.

            “He’s Daredevil,” she repeated softly, looking in wonder at the man lying on the bed. “How?”

            Foggy leant forward, resting his forearms on the rough blue sheets beside Matt’s thigh. “To be honest, I’m not entirely clear on that myself. But I know what happened.”

            “Tell me.”

            He took a deep breath. “Okay. But I can’t tell you everything, alright? It’s Matt’s story, not mine. And he trusts me to keep it.”

            She nodded. “He told you?”

            “Well.” He made a face. “It wasn’t exactly his idea.”

            Her eyebrows twitched skywards, prompting him to continue.

            “Remember Elena’s wake? Well, I went by his place after Josie’s. Just, needed to talk. And, um, he wasn’t answering the door. Figured he was just asleep at first, but then I heard a crash. Like, a big one. Went up to the roof and in his access door. And there was someone there.

            “The Man in the Mask.” Karen’s eyebrows inched higher into incredulity.

            “And he was cut to shit. Bleeding, panting like every breath hurt like a son of a bitch. Then he collapsed. And I pulled the mask away, and ... it was Matt.”

            “Holy shit.”

            He nodded his agreement. “Y’know the nurse here, Claire?” She nodded. “She found Matt in a dumpster a few months back, bled half to death. Patched him up.”

            “My god ...” Foggy tried to ignore how horrified she sounded.

            “I guess, since then, whenever he gets hurt bad he calls her. On a burner phone. She stitches him up and he comes into work the next day, and we think it’s just a black eye.”

            “Jesus ... So you called Claire that night? Why not an ambulance?”

            “Tried to. Matt took a swing at me. He was really out of it with the pain. Don’t think he knew it was me.”

            “And you told me it was a car accident ...”

            “I didn’t want to lie to you, Karen. I’m sorry.”

            She met his gaze and smiled. “It’s okay, Foggy. You were being a good friend.”

            “To Matt. Not to you. You deserve better.”

            Her smiled widened.

            “Well you can make it up to me. Tell me how he does it. I mean, he’s _blind_ , right?”

            Foggy chuckled despite himself. “Yeah, well, about that.”


	9. Matt

            He was drifting through shadows of impressions. Ghosts of words swept by without pausing long enough to be understood. Pulses of heated sound meant people were nearby. Spiked chords of razor fibres were pressed into his flesh on all sides, grating grooves into his skin with every breath. The cold air tasted round and dry, spiked with a chemical his foggy brain couldn’t place. Frozen waves of plastic pressed against his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his chin. He should know what that was.

            A numb burn in his chest smouldered with every breath, but it felt far away, dampened by the same slow pressure that weighed his thoughts. He felt smothered. A bubble floating underwater, kept from the surface by unseen hands pushing him down, keeping him in the wavering depths. Why couldn’t he wake up? Why was everything so sluggish, so evasive to his exhausted grasp?

            Warmth curled around his fingers. The pressure was steady, strong. Solid. He focused on it, pushing against the underwater hands. The warmth coalesced into skin against his. There. Four fingers laid over his knuckles. The thumb rubbing against his palm. He forced his stinging lungs to draw in a deeper breath, sifting through the smells. He couldn’t untangle them. They were drenched in the same chemical that laced the air. It was overpowering, trying to keep him under, unaware. The fingers vanished too suddenly and biting air replaced their grip on his flesh. Exhaustion reached up from beneath him and wrapped itself around his chest, pulling him inescapably into unconsciousness.

            When he next rose far enough to taste the air he felt more alert. The warm pulses rolled over his exposed skin, and this time he could hear the glugging beat that drove them. Heartbeats. Two of them. He tried to concentrate on the rhythm, the exact strength of the thud. He knew they were familiar, but numbness pressed against him, urging him away. He left the tangle of sounds unloosened with a sigh.

            A hand appeared around his. It squeezed his fingers and he could feel the flutter of its heartbeat pulse against his knuckles. It belonged to the lighter heart, the higher-pitched beat that might be coming from his right. A weight rolled through the air in his direction, carrying the warmth of breath and clip of words. He felt them rustle past his ears. That sound, it was definitely one he knew, one that settled his heart. He tried to speak but his mouth was sealed shut. He tried to close his fingers around the slender warmth. They wouldn’t obey. He focused past the throb in his chest, past the unnatural coldness of the air scorching through his nose. Concentrating, _concentrating_ , he commanded his fingers to clench. One of them obeyed.

            Sucking in another deep, stinging breath, he tried again, feeling his brows twitch into a frown. The voice floated by again – no, two voices. A sloping staccato melody. He willed himself to surface, to hear what they were saying. His fingers curled tighter around the fingertips at the same moment his heavy lids broke open.

            “Matt? Matt?”

            He blinked. Breathed. Blinked again.

            “Kar’n.” Barely a mumble.

            “Yeah, yeah it’s me, Matt. I’m here.”

            The world was slowly echoing into focus. The words became clearer, the sounds sharper, the smells more distinct.

            “Matt? Can you hear me, buddy?”

            “F’gy.”

            A laugh skittered by. “Yeah, that’s right, buddy. Man, it’s good to see you.”

            Had he been gone? Where was he? He took another slow breath, grimacing as it stung through his nose, stabbed his chest.

            Those smells ... he knew them. Sterile, clinical.

            “Where ’m I?” he breathed, blinking his eyes wider.

            “Metro-General. You’re okay, you’re gonna be fine,” Karen half-whispered. It was still too loud, grating against a burgeoning headache.

            It took a moment for her words to sink in. He was in hospital? Shit, did someone find him last night? Karen was here, did that mean she knew? Who had found him? Who’d –

            “Easy there, buddy. Just breathe, okay?” Foggy’s voice was low, steady. Matt obeyed, taking three deep breaths. The throb in his chest flared with each one, and with it came the memory.

            “I w’s shot,” he mumbled, surprised. A blaze of fear shuddered through him. “Y-you, are you –?”

            “We’re fine, Matt,” Karen soothed. “You’re the only one who got hurt.” Her voice was thicker as she said that. Tearful?

            He remembered her fingers in his hand and squeezed them, holding them close for a long moment. She returned the pressure.

            “I’m okay,” he sighed, rubbing his thumb along her knuckles. They both chuckled, and he could hear Foggy’s exasperation.

            “Dude. You were shot. _In the chest._ You’re far from okay.”

            Matt smiled at that. The plastic thing around his face tugged against flat elastics pulled taught over his cheeks. He raised his free hand to remove the oxygen mask and hissed as pain zinged through his shoulder, stoking the low burn in his chest into a brief, fierce flame. He felt Foggy’s hand grab his wrist, lowering it back against the steel-chorded sheets.

            “Easy there buddy. Gonna wanna lie still for now, okay?”

            “Mask,” he protested.

            “Mask stays where it is for now.”

            He grumbled. They both laughed.

            “Just,” Karen coaxed, “just lie still for now, alright? You’ve been asleep for almost two days.”

            His eyes widened. Two days?

            “What happened?” He tried to sit up but the embers in his chest flickered warningly, zinging along internal fault lines he’d never felt before. He heard Foggy grab at something that clinked against the bedrail. A sharp click and a buzzing drone and Matt felt the bed raise his shoulders. He gritted his teeth as the embers growled, but Foggy released the button before they could fire.

            “You only get the short version for now, okay? I gotta go get Claire so she can, I dunno, nurse you.”

            “Claire?”

            “Yep. She took your breathing tube out.”

            Breathing tube? Well that explained the raw dryness in his throat. How badly had he been injured?

            “Why don’t you go find her now?” Karen said in Foggy’s direction. “I’ll fill him in.”

            Foggy agreed over the rustle of his jacket whipping off a seat, the smooth fabric of the lining crackling against the coarse wool of the chair. The waft of air rolled a wave of information over his face. He turned his head to the side, concentrating on the sickly scent of oxygen, too tired to sort through the other hundred impressions. He felt Foggy’s big hand gently pat his shoulder.

            “I’ll be back soon. It’s really good to see your eyes again, buddy.”

            “Thanks Fog.”

            He let Foggy’s footsteps fade into the indistinct thrumming that hummed beyond the door. Karen’s other hand wrapped around his wrist. He turned his head toward her, smiling against the mask.

            “You had us worried there, Mr. Murdock.”

            “Sorry. I should’ve –” He caught himself. _I should’ve heard it coming._

            “No, no, Matt. God, you have nothing to be sorry about. This was not your fault.”

            Wasn’t it? “What happened?”

            She took a fortifying breath before she spoke, and it quavered slightly against her lips. Matt frowned, listening closer to her cantering heartbeat.

            “It ... Well, the short version is someone in Sea Fairer wanted to ... dissuade us. From the case.”

            Matt blinked. Sea Fairer? The transport company? But how had they figured out where he worked? He’d only raided their docks twice, there’s no way they could have found out who he was – and no one could’ve followed him home, he always made sure of that.

            His confusion must have shown on his face. Karen rubbed his wrist absentmindedly, her words directed to their hands.

            “They should never have targeted you. Or Foggy. You guys were just, just being lawyers, constructing good defences for Browning and his buddy on the dock. They never would have sent an assassin after us if we’d left it at that. If _I’d_ left it at that.”

            Her heartrate was pounding in her chest now, light and anxious. He tightened his grip around her hand, still trying to understand. His thoughts were sluggish, unwilling to make sense of her words. When she spoke again her voice was thick, shaky.

            “It’s my fault, Matt. I dug into their termination records and Browning mentioned in passing one of his friends got fired about six months before him but when I asked to interview him he said he’d died. So I crosschecked with police records and almost everyone Sea Fairer fired in the past two years for reasons like Browning ended up dead less than six weeks later. I should’ve told you and Foggy what I was doing, but I knew you’d –”

            “Karen,” he said quietly, cutting across her tearful rambling. “Karen. This wasn’t your fault.”

            “Yes it was,” she sniffed, and he could just taste the salt of her tears past the oxygen. “They shot you so I would stop digging. They sent me a message, they told me to stop digging unless I wanted to bury you and Foggy, but they should’ve just shot me –”

            “Karen. Listen to me, please.”

            “You almost died because of me, your heart stopped, Matt, it stopped, right in front of me –”

            She was openly crying now. Her fingers clung to his like a lifeline and he wondered how long she’d been damming those tears. He reached up, breaking the contact of their hands and ignoring the lesser hiss of pain zinging through his breast to find her cheek. Wet streaks pressed against his palm, cooler that the surrounding skin. Gently, he pulled her head to his shoulder, doggedly ignoring the pain’s dramatic crescendo as he wrapped his other arm around her shaking frame.

            “It’s okay, Karen. I’m okay. Everything’s going to be fine, I promise. I promise.” He breathed slowly, taming the wild inferno into a more manageable bonfire.

            He held her against him until her heart and breathing slowed, stroking her soft hair and, despite the low burn in his chest and shoulder, relishing the simple comfort of her warmth against him. She relaxed into his side, her head tucked against his neck, one hand tracing swirling patterns across the hollow of his neck and breastbone, the trailing pressure staying clear of the bandages. He focused on the smell of her hair, that warm scent that reminded him of brightest sunshine mixed with the coconut of her shampoo. He closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of her head, pulling the mask off so he could press a kiss against the smooth strands.

            He didn’t even register the significance of his bare chest until her tracing fingers found the scar along his collarbone. Her steady breath hitched as she was about to speak and he felt the moment shatter as he wondered how he could explain away the rough ridges – or even, if he should?

            A clattering bellow of twisting metal and sweeping wood saved him as two heartbeats strode through the door. Karen jumped slightly and pulled away, keeping his hand in hers. The air was like cold fangs in her absence. He felt the faint blossom of warmth as she blushed at the visitors.

            “Well aren’t you two just sickeningly sweet,” Foggy teased. Matt heard his feet skid to a halt at the foot of his bed as the other set came to rest beside him, a familiar sandalwood scent blowing by in their wake.

            “Hi Claire.”


	10. Claire

            “Gotta love the irony, right?” Claire said once the door closed behind Foggy and Karen.

            “Irony?” he croaked, raising a hand in protest as she replaced the mask over his mouth and nose.

            “Hey, hands off. Yeah, I mean, I finally get you in a hospital bed and it’s not even because of Daredevil. How is that not ironic?”

            “Well, when you put it that way. When can I take this off? I’m breathing fine.”

            She wondered if her could hear her roll her eyes. Clearly he had super-selective hearing if he didn’t pick up on that wheeze chasing his every breath. “It stays until the machine says you don’t need it.”

            “Does it say that now?”

            Shaking her head with an exasperated smile she thumbed the display in front of her, checking his O2 levels. Her eyebrows twitched in surprise. Already better than she’d expected.

            “Does that mean I’m good?”

            She frowned at him.

            “Your heart spiked a little. You were surprised?”

            “It’s creepy when you do that, you know?”

            “Yeah. I know.”

            “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll replace the mask with a cannula if you don’t drive me insane while you’re in here. That means _listening_ to the nice nurse who’s in charge of your discharge forms.”

            He smiled as he pretended to think it over, his tired eyes at half-mast.

            “Deal.”

            “Good.” A thought occurred to her. “Can I get that in writing?”

            He laughed, then abruptly grimaced and curled in on himself, his arm wrapping around his ribs. He took a few deep breaths, relaxing minutely with each one.

            “How bad?”

            “Not bad. I’m fine.”

            Claire snorted.

            “Okay, Macho Man. Here, you’re bleeding through the bandage.”

            He leant back to let her at the red-tinged gauze. She snapped on a pair of gloves and pulled the edges of the tape back, peeling it carefully away from the angry red swelling, the skin bound tight by regimented black stitches.

            “Okay,” she said brightly, dropping the bloodied bandages on a metal tray and releasing an antiseptic wipe from its packaging. “It’s looking pretty good, considering. Swelling’s on the way down. But,” she said, levelling him with an icy glare he couldn’t see but no doubt heard, “you move around too much and this thing’ll rip open. Same with the internal stitches, they had to patch up your lung too.”

            “Define ‘too much’?”

            Her eyebrow raised. “Pulling on a jacket.”

            His mischievous smile faltered. “Oh.”

            “Yeah, _oh._ You got hurt pretty bad this time, Matt. The bullet only barely missed your heart.”

            “Yeah, I heard the glass break and started.”

            “You did?” Wow. “Well, that’s what saved your life. Gotta love the superears.”

            “Karen said my heart stopped in the ambulance.”

            She paused to take in his expression as she pulled medical tape free of its spool.

            “Yeah, I hear it did. Three minutes, twenty-seven seconds according to the paramedics.”

            “Wow.” Whatever he was thinking was kept firmly sealed behind a carefully impassive expression.

            He remained silent as she redressed the wound. His thick brows twitched.

            “Pain okay?”

            “What? Yeah, it’s fine. Hey Claire? How long till I can get out of here?”

            She snorted as she pulled the gloves free of her hands.

            “You’ve been awake, what? An hour? Hospitals aren’t _that_ bad.”

            “How long?”

            She frowned as she pulled his mask away, setting it aside and reaching for the sterilised nasal cannula.

            “I dunno, usually ... about a week for this kind of wound, maybe?”

            He nodded. His jaw tight.

            “Matt.” She waited till his sightless eyes turned in her direction. “What are you thinking? ‘Cause I’ll tell you right now, if one of my patients disappears after major surgery the board will be on my ass and hearings put me in a _very_ bad mood.”

            His lips twitched in what was probably intended as a smile. She fitted the cannula around his ears, positioning the two tubes in his nose. He kept his gaze far from her face.

            “Matt, seriously. What?”

            She started the flow of oxygen and looked back to him, one hand resting on his arm.

            “I ... can’t be here for a week.”

            “Because the streets need you? Matt, I know you heal fast but you can’t be out –”

            “No. It’s not that.” He was even quieter than usual, the words a tentative whisper.

            “Then what?”

            “I can hear it.”

            “Hear what?”

            “All of it. Everything.”

            Oh. “I’d’ve thought the morphine would take the edge of the supersenses,” she said quietly, her heart panging for the pain the drugs couldn’t touch.

            “Morphine?”

            “Yeah, you’re getting the VIP treatment. That’s why you’re able to lie still and have a conversation instead of, say, writhing around in pain while you suffocate.”

            He blinked. “So that’s why I feel like I’m underwater.”

            “Yep. Trust me, you don’t want to break the surface anytime soon.”

            He nodded, suddenly looking for the first time as though he’d been shot in the chest. His face was paler, drawn. His eyelids stayed half-shut with every blink.

            “You need to rest, Matt. Sleep. Let yourself heal.” She waved a hand vaguely around his chest. “Do some of your voodoo meditation shit. Get better.”

            He nodded again and seemed to deflate into the sheets, the ghost of a smile flitting past his lips. Claire gathered the metal tray and mask, rising to her feet.

            “By the way I saw your X-Ray.”

            His eyes stayed closed but one eyebrow twitched in interest. “Oh?”

            “Yep. And for the record your ribs look like splatter art.”

            His teeth flashed in a lazy smile. “Always liked art.”

            “Uh-huh.” She leaned over and pressed her lips against his forehead for a moment. His breathing was already steadier, his face relaxing into sleep. She turned to leave, but hesitated by the door.

            “And your friends? You’re lucky to have them, Matt.”

            His eyes cracked open.

            “I know.”

            “They didn’t leave you alone for a minute while you were out. Maybe it’s not for me to say, but people like that? They have good taste in friends. And they don’t deserve to be lied to. They deserve to be trusted.”

            He took a deliberate breath. “I know.”

            She pushed the door handle down, the sound of the latch clacking through the quiet room.

            “I’ll see you later, Matt. Get some rest.”


	11. Matt

            Karen had slipped into sleep about an hour ago. Her chest nudged regularly against his with deep, untroubled breaths. The relaxed _tha-thump_ of her heart was a steady metronome against his skin, gently harbouring his attention in the subtle waves of rhythmic heat. Her breath rolled across his neck like a rounded summer breeze, lazily gusting over his scars, the almost unfelt pressure sliding past the bandages was a balm over its slow burn.

            Focusing on her breath helped numb the burning sting of each of his. The cannula was certainly better than the mask but it still seemed to rub his skin raw, the incessant gale of oxygen scorching his abrading nostrils. His mind was caught too firmly in the haze of morphine for him to filter the discomfort out completely, but Karen’s smell and the scent of Gerber daisies and freshly snipped conifer crept like a whisper with each breath, helping ease the chemicals into a nebulous whole.

            Sounds were harder to ignore. The low churn of pouring oxygen was monotonous enough to establish a cocoon of sorts. Everything outside its droning grumble, the footsteps, the heart monitors, the faraway conversations, melded into an almost ignorable pressure pulsing at the edges of his awareness. He concentrated on Karen’s breathing, on her heartbeat and the rustle of her clothes against their skin, determined not to be distracted. He wrapped the sounds like silk around the two of them, thickening his insulation against the hospital’s ceaseless sorrow.

            The morphine ate at his silk, dissolving it from the inside into useless half-tethered wisps. The hospital groaned through the holes in his cocoon, demanding his attention. Staccato snippets reared from the seething miasma as though calling him by name, and once identified they were harder to fend back into the moaning sea.

            There was the teenage girl in the room above his, sobbing desperately into a stuffed animal that still smelt of the parents who died in the accident that took her right leg.

            The old woman next door who couldn’t sleep but stayed awake talking in a broken whisper to her husband, whose heartbeat grew slower with each minute.

            Parents whose heartrate hadn’t slowed since he woke up, who were waiting to hear if their newborn son would survive the surgery to clear his lungs.

            A young man who was begging his girlfriend to open her eyes, promising endless pointless changes if she would just wake up, while the nurses holding her intestines in told him again and again to step back, to let them work.

            Matt hadn’t had this much trouble filtering the world since he was nine years old.  Ambulance sirens lanced through his mind, his heart jolting as they seemed to drive right through his room. Shouted questions and mechanical answers battered his consciousness like heavy rain in a blustering gale. Wailing sobs raked his heart as he lay helpless. Useless.

            Karen sucked in a quick breath, breaking her rhythm as she mumbled syllables that were lost around her sigh. He closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against her hair, ignoring the tube burrowing against his cheekbone. He forced himself to hear each breath, to actively track its whistling passage past her rounded lips, its hiss through the regimented forest of teeth, and the minute echo as it curved down her throat.

            His head slumped back against the cement pillow. He couldn’t keep this up. Exhaustion sucked at his temples. Pain gnawed through his chest. The intermittently numbing fog of morphine kept him stranded between consciousness and sleep. God, he wished Foggy were here. He would’ve been talking about something, filling the world with his lilting tenor, shaping it into something Matt could swallow. He wondered if he’d finished at the precinct yet? If he’d gone home to catch some real sleep before he was back at Matt’s bedside again tomorrow, determined to chat him into health?

            Was Claire still at work? He’d lost her to the crush of bodies not long after he’d woken up. He wished she were here. She would know how to temper the hurricane of drugs and voices.

            What time was it anyway? The thrumming energy of the hospital had stilled compared to when he’d first woken. It must be after nightfall ... Early morning maybe? Or was it closer to midnight? He wished they hadn’t taken his watch. Not that he could’ve reached the button to tell the time with his arm pinned between Karen and the bedrail. But still, if he listened carefully he could feel the face under the glass and at least get an idea of the time. He was too tired to search out a clock in a nearby room. Every time curiosity extended his senses they wavered and snapped back to the room like an old elastic band. Or they’d be hooked around some piercing snippet of a stranger’s life, snagged and tangled.

            He took as deep a breath as his wound would allow, his nose buried in Karen’s hair. Sunshine and coconut blew through his mind, banishing the fog for a precious moment. He should be asleep. His limbs were dipped in weighted molasses, eager to slip into slumber. The deep ache in his breast throbbed with each heartbeat, but even that determined rhythm couldn’t ease his mind into quiet. The mild sting of the paddle burns harmonised with the deeper rumble pulsing from his chest like a badly sung opera, unpredictable crescendos snaring his attention and forcing him into a confusing labyrinth of echoing wildfire.

            Heavy footsteps drew his attention back to the hospital. He heaved a sigh. _Just someone doing their rounds. Don’t listen. Think of Karen._ He inhaled her scent again, willing it to settle the storm clouds circling his fragile mental oasis. The footsteps protruded again and he flopped his head back in exasperation, grimacing as the motion pulled on his stitches.

            He listened for the steps, wondering why they had piqued his sluggish awareness. A heavy tread with a low thud, so a big man. Nothing unusual about that. He cocked his head as something else reached his ears. A sharp clipping with every other step. Stethoscope? Clipboard?

            His addled mind seemed to swerve, careening through a rush of breathing and heartbeats and low sobs which drowned the man out, concealing him in a sonic swell. He sighed, tightening his arms around Karen. _Just a doctor doing his rounds. No point getting interested. Just relax. Sleep_.

            The footsteps surfaced again and this time he caught what made them stand out to the thrum of the ER below. What doctor wore tactical boots to work? Apprehension prickled along his spine, urging his fingers into fists.

            Matt straightened up, determination focusing his senses as he reached out for the intruder. Was he an intruder? He was walking with purpose, quickly, evenly. He knew where he was going. He wore a long woollen cloak; it grated uniquely against his thick cargo pants. Something solid and metallic pushed against the fibres of one of the pockets with every other step. A baby wailed a piercing smile and an artery ruptured in an OR.

            Matt gave his head a shake. He felt drunk. Information gusted by in confusing waves. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, ignoring the complaining groan in his chest and concentrated. On the footsteps. Only the footsteps.

            Now. The heartbeat. Steady. Healthy. Strong. One floor below, heading to the stairs.

            Coming this way, then. The assassin?

            What else was there? He hadn’t shaved in a few days, his steady exhales whistled through the stubble. His hair was damp, as were the shoulders of his coat. Raining outside. The man reached out to open one of the double doors leading to the stairwell and Matt’s eyes snapped open.

            There. As his coat swayed towards the door as he pulled the handle. The wool swept across smooth plastic fastened over the man’s hip. The tiny scrape was enough to echo through the plastic and tell Matt what was hidden inside.

            A gun.

            He could smell the waiting powder, feel the tension of the hammer, already cocked. The gripped cylinder of a silencer poked through the holster, rasping against the nylon lining of the coat.

            That was all Matt needed to know.

            “Karen? Karen, wake up.”

            She groaned slightly against his chest, her breath hitching in a sudden yawn. She sat up, her heartbeat jumping in surprise.

            “Matt? Sorry, I must’ve dozed off. Hey,” she added, one hand coming to rest against his jaw. “You okay?”

            He nodded, thinking fast. Where was safe? Where would she go? He didn’t have long. The gunman had already started up the stairs.

            “I’m fine.” His voice was a rasping croak. Good. “Well, uh –”

            “What is it? You need something?”

            “Some jello?”

            “Jello?” Laughter shook through the syllables.

            “Yeah, my, uh, my throat’s really dry. Guess because of the breathing tube.” _Please, Karen,_ he begged silently.

            “Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” He heard her check her watch. “Not sure if the cafeteria’ll be open now but I can go check?”

            He nodded, letting his relief show, hoping she interpreted it as motivation to hurry. “Thanks Karen. I appreciate it.”

            “No problem.” She kissed his cheek as she swung off the bed. Slipping on her pumps she asked, “Flavour preference?”

            “Anything.” _Please, just go!_

            “Sure, okay.” Her tone was quieter. “I’ll be right back.”

            “Take your time,” he croaked after her, sending a quick prayer to aid his wish.

            As soon as the door clicked shut he pulled himself into a sitting position, teeth clenched against the warning burn in his chest. Okay. He judged he had maybe one minute before the gunman got here. He listened carefully for a second, then sagged in relief as he heard Karen’s staccato footsteps click into the elevator. There. She was safe. Now.

            To work.

            He pulled the IV out of his arm and snapped his fingers hard, using the echo to map out the room. Bank of machines to his left, sink in the far left corner, storage to his right, window on his left, closed.

            The bullet wound snarled as tightened his left fist. He took a deep breath, fanning a fiery flare. Then another, stoking the fire. It rumbled angrily. He took one more, pulling the pain from his chest, wrapping it around him, numbing it with familiarity. Embracing its roar.

            The footsteps stamped closer along his corridor. He needed to be quick. This fight couldn’t last long. _He_ couldn’t last long. But then he didn’t need to. Just long enough. One well-placed kick and it would be over. Provided he didn’t get shot first.

            He pulled the nasal cannula off his face, winding it around his left fist as he had done so many times with tape in Fogwell’s Gym. He felt the gentle tug as the slack tightened. The footsteps were right outside.

            He took one last, slow breath.

            Time to let the devil out.


	12. Matt

            He spun himself off the bed a heartbeat before the suppressed spit of the pistol sent the bullet screaming into the pillow. Grabbing the plastic vase of flowers beside the bed he whipped them through the air, its flight fuelled by the momentum as he twisted away. The man’s arm came up in time to shield his face from the vase, but it knocked the flowers into his face and gave Matt the precious seconds he needed to find his stance. Punching the flowers away, the gunman surged forwards, pollen clinging like a haze around his face. Matt smiled.

            The gun sailed upwards, aiming for his chest. He darted closer, looping the cannula’s tube around the offending wrist and jerking it up hard, lashing out with his heel and unbalancing his opponent. Embracing the raging burn in his chest he sailed forward, ducking under the outstretched arm, lashing back with is other foot and coming up behind the gunman, the tube now looped around his neck, his gun trapped against his head, pointing at the ceiling. A second bullet snapped free, burrowing itself through thin plywood and wires. Matt had time to hope it didn’t hit anyone upstairs before Pollen’s other elbow stabbed into his side, forcing air from his lungs and fuelling the fire in his chest. A stale _crack_ ripped along his ribs. Pollen raised his arm again, readying a second blow and Matt spun away, needing space to suck in half a breath. He grabbed the gun and twisted it out of the sweaty hand, spinning it into the far corner, jabbing his other fist hard into his gut as he twisted past. Pollen grunted and Matt could feel the man’s rage rising. He smirked.

            He felt the tube unravel from his fist and clenched it harder, jerking his hand down hard. Pollen’s head followed in quick succession, the tube tightening around his neck. With a rumbling growl he pulled the tubing off himself, lashing it out at Matt’s face. He batted it away but the distraction worked: Pollen surged forward like a bull, his shoulder slamming into Matt’s gut, evicting his air and pulling on his stitches. He tasted copper oozing beneath the gauze.

            Before he could counter his back was crushed into the window, the sill biting into his lower back and pain lightninged through him. He tried to suck in a breath but his lungs were frozen, the fire in his chest surging into a wild, volcanic inferno, roaring at him to _stop!_ He kicked his knee into Pollen’s gut but the blow was too weak to matter. Wheezing in thimbles of air he hooked his right arm under the man’s shoulder and pulled with all his waning might, twisting hard until the man fell sideways with a satisfying, squelching _pop._

            Matt braced himself against the wall, willing himself to rally. The morphine fog had been scorched away but pain was shorting his attention, sucking him seductively into unconsciousness, which right now, meant death.

            The squeak of rubber on linoleum brought him back to the room. The scent of pollen rose, laced now with blood and sweat, from the floor. The rustle of nylon and the sudden biting taste of steel revealed a knife held securely in fuming fingers.

            Matt held his position as man and blade flew towards him, spinning aside a second too late and feeling the cold metal rip more blood into the air. He gritted his teeth, holding his injured arm over his ribs, feeling the inferno blaze up a notch. He needed to end this _now._

            The knife came slicing back at him, this time aimed for his gut and he braced into the impact, grabbing Pollen’s knife arm and guiding it harmlessly past his side while his knee kicked savagely into the man’s groin. While he struggled for breath Matt twisted the arm hard, his own teeth clenched against a scream that roared through him. He was rewarded by the zinging clatter of the blade hitting the floor. He moved to kick it away, which was his last mistake.

            Pollen was expecting it and jerked his arm out of Matt’s grip, wrapping it around his knee and heaving him into the air. The man twisted and jumped, sending them both crashing into the hard ground, Pollen’s full weight focused on his shoulder pressed into Matt’s stomach. Any air he had clung to disappeared as the impact against his head and back sent blackness winking through his mind. He felt his arms go slack. Blood coughed into his mouth. The familiar tugging sting of ripping stitches burned under the soaked bandage while a similar, far more intense fire flickered inside him. Dimly, he heard a rhythmic thudding and wondered if it was approaching footsteps. Maybe Karen. _God, please let it not be Karen._

            He felt Pollen pull backwards, onto his knees. His heart was quick and decisive, his rage thundering through his veins, eager for release. Matt supposed it must be pretty aggravating, shooting a blind guy who somehow pulled through, then having to finish the job only to get his ass kicked. He didn’t have time to enjoy being a nuisance in this scumbag’s life; his meaty fists were pounding into his face, his stomach, his bandaged wound, his jaw, his cracking ribs. Each beat resounded through him, the vibrations ricocheting from his skull to the floor and back. Each blow pummelled him deeper into blackness, pushing him further and further away from warmth, from scents, from air. His right arm was pinned under Pollen’s legs and his left only twitched as he tried to make a fist, sending red shocks of fire through his breast.

            _Get up, Matty._

            A distant metallic clanking. Squeaking, clicking footsteps. The vaguest hint of sunshine and sandalwood. Pollen shifted, his knee pressing hard into Matt’s chest as the fists reached around his throat.

            _Come on, get up._

            An echo that should have been a shout. A warbling _clang_ and the pressure on his chest lifted. The crunch of bone. The thud of a slender body hitting the far wall. A scream.

            _“Matt, get up!”_

            He clawed in a breath, trying to make sense of the indistinct flurries battering his senses. Familiar hands curled around his shoulder and dragged him painfully away from the panting sound of punches. He blinked. Gasped. Focused through dense, swirling scented fog.

            Claire was pinned against the wall, her teeth bared in a snarl as she lashed out at the man holding her, but his hands were tightening their grip on her throat.

            _Get up, Matthew! NOW!_

            He heaved himself onto his elbow. His stomach convulsed and a waterfall of sickly, thick blood forced itself over his tongue. Blackness sucked at his mind, pain at his chest, but that did not matter, nothing mattered but getting to Claire _now._

            He tensed to rock himself forward and kick Pollen’s leg away but a hand with painted fingernails appeared on his chest, pushing him back into the ground. His eyes widened in horror as he felt Karen rise to her feet and lunge at the assassin. He tried to speak, to shout at her to get the hell away, but the only thing in his lungs now was blood.

            The sickening snap as Karen’s heel lashed into the man’s calf. His cry was cut short by her punch and his fingers relaxed around Claire, who slumped, coughing, to the ground. Matt’s arm gave out beneath him and the cold linoleum pressed into the side of his face. _No, get up, Matt. Get up. They need you. Get up._

            Pollen spun – or turned – and struck Karen hard with his fist – or his foot? Her cry morphed into a vicious growl and she hit him back, landing a solid-sounding punch ... somewhere.

            _Get up ..._

            Claire caught her breath with a venomous snarl and suddenly she was on her feet, her heat merging with Pollen’s with a bodily _thud._ Something sharp and plastic arced through the air and the man grunted. Karen punched again. One of the heartbeats slowed unnaturally.

            Matt felt the vibrations of something heavy landing hard through the floor, zipping into his cheekbone, rippling through the pool of stinking blood that grew larger as another involuntary heave sent a new wave of thick copper slithering from his lips. His mind felt like wet cotton. The few sounds that reached his ears were distorted and echoing. All he could taste was his own burning blood.

            Hands reached him. Turned him on his back. They were ice against his skin. One slipped behind his neck and raised his head so the next surge of blood oozed over his chin. The hand became knees. Ice burned against the suffocating fire where his lungs used to be. He could hear words, quick, low, urgent. Their meaning sailed by him like leaves on a breeze. _Bleeding ... chest cavity ... collapsing ... suffocate ... help ..._

            A shard of ice pierced the fire and he felt it swell in outrage. The pressure shifted and wisps of flames were sucked away through the ice. He blinked slowly. Something cool snaked its way through the blood that was once his throat. Was that air? It felt wrong, barbed and freezing. More blood welled around it, lazily drowning it in sickly heat. The inferno in his chest seemed tamer now, or maybe that was just the smoking haze surrounding him, pulling him away?

            The ice on his skin melted. The fire receded. The world echoed into stillness, replaced with a dense, heavy, and engulfing layer of _black_.

            And then that disappeared too.


	13. Foggy

            It was incredible how a good night’s sleep could transform your entire world view. It amazed him how you could crawl into bed knowing in your very core that the world was a steaming pile of human cruelty, that a person’s faith was only as strong as their ability to suffer, and yet you could still wake up to clear, spectacular sunshine bouncing from building to building and feel an expanding lightness in your chest. A kind of porous golden pressure reaching gently from your heart, swelling with each breath as though eager to reach out and touch everything and everyone it could. Having done nothing more than give up on a horrible day and essentially turn yourself off then on again, you could feel like an entirely new person just a few slumberous hours after you were sure you couldn’t bear another minute of your own life. Maybe it was like those birds that dunked their glass beaks into water as though drinking, nodding in an endless quest of quenching thirst perpetuated by the liquid trapped inside their translucent bodies. It was like the red-dyed liquid was trying to escape, always crashing against its glass prison with subtle insanity. Its determined, inescapable violence would bow the bird’s top-hatted head, forcing it as low as it could go without breaking. Then the beak touches the water and the red whatever-it-is settles down for a second, long enough for the bird to feel okay again and raise its head, its ever-staring eyes suddenly afforded a loftier, more optimistic view.

            Or maybe it was just a cheap doodad to add to your desk to make your procrastinating staring contests more interesting and Foggy was having flashbacks to a philosophy class he failed in his freshman year.

            Either way, something about last night had changed him. Maybe he had simply been feeling too shit for too long and his mind reset itself, or he’d used up months’ worth shittiness in the almost three weeks since Matt was shot. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t complaining, and intended to ride this non-depressing wave as long and as far as he could. And to hell if he wasn’t bringing Matt and Karen along with him.

            He wove through the hospital’s bustle on autopilot, his feet wearing the familiar path to Matt’s room on the fifth floor. The wrapped burritos scorched through the paper bag concealing their enormous size, burning pleasantly into his forearm and eliciting the odd impatient grumble from his stomach. It’d had been over a week since the shooter almost killed Matt (the second time) and since nothing else catastrophic had happened the number of cops guarding his door was down to one. Brett had been sick with shamed disbelief when he heard about the second attack, having relinquished the rotating guard too early. Now he was determined to keep at least one brave blue outside Matt’s room (and Foggy and Karen’s apartments) until all this drama reached a definitive close. After days of reassurance and semi-airtight logic Foggy had given up trying to ease his frenemy’s conscience and settled for making a few new friends on the force.

            Hence the extra burrito.

            Sergeant Gale was a Puerto Rican with amazing teeth who, Foggy had quickly discovered, had a thorough and heartfelt appreciation for pulled pork. He handed the hot silver-foiled taste bundle over with his special, cop-bribing smile.

            “How’s everything going today, officer?” he asked cheerily, weaving the burrito through the air slightly before landing it in the olive palm, wafting the mouthwatering aroma delicately past the sergeant’s nose. He didn’t miss the hungry gleam in the dark eyes as the salsa registered.

            “Pretty good,” Gale answered amicably, nodding his thanks as he took the wrap. “Your friend had a good day today.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. Been up for hours. Seems to be feelin’ okay.”

            “That’s great!” Maybe he wasn’t the only one to have a transformative morning. “Is Karen in there?”

            “Naw, she left maybe an hour ago? Said she had a meeting downtown.”

            Foggy nodded and pretended not to be mildly freaked out by that. Who the hell would she be meeting with? God he hoped it was just something normal like the hairdresser or dentist and not something remotely adjacent to anything potentially life-threatening or rage-inducing like the Sea Fairer case. Again.

            _Speaking of the Sea Fairer bastards_ , “Hey, any news on the case?”

            Judging my Gale’s sudden so-done-with-you glare Foggy hadn’t quite achieved optimum levels of charm in his clearly not-so-winning smile. He cut across Gale’s reminder that he couldn’t share details of an active case with a shameless guilt trip, complete with his finest puppy-dog eyes.

            “C’mon, Sergeant, I’m not asking for a blow-by-blow here. I just wanna know if we’re any closer to having our lives back?” He gestured mournfully at Matt’s door. “If my friends are safe yet.”

            Gale held the glare for maybe another six seconds, then thawed. Foggy hid his grin and inwardly applauded his brilliance.

            “Look, man, I get you’re ready for all this to be over.” Foggy nodded emphatically, eyebrows raised in agreement. “But there really isn’t much to tell. Shooter’s still in the works, still won’t talk. We’ve gone back to the gun leads and Karen gave us plenty more info to work through. But hey,” he finished encouragingly, “no one’s made a move on any of you in almost two weeks, that’s some good news!”

            Foggy mumbled an agreement, deciding not to mention the possibility that, having failed in their first clean-up attempt, whoever had wanted Nelson and Murdock taken off the To Do list was probably just waiting for the cops to give up and leave them wide open to a more final conclusion. He seriously doubted whoever they’d pissed off was mollified by the NYPD asking questions as well as lawyers. Wrapping up the small talk he knocked unnecessarily on the wide door before pushing it open, the now familiar _clank_ of the lock resounding back through the corridor.

            Matt was curled on his side with the bed covers pushed to the very end of the bed, safely out of reach of his bare feet. His grey hoodie was pulled over his head, his unslung arm cradling his head while his left remained pinned across his torso. He’d been free of breathing aids for three days now, but the IV still snaked its way out of the sleeve to rejoin the banks of machines. The open window sent swirling currents of cool air dancing invisibly through the room, carrying the unmistakable scent of New York. Foggy stepped quietly over to the chair Karen had left facing Matt, trying to see if he was awake.

            His eyes were closed in the shade of the hood, the light grey wool blend almost matching his still sickly pallor. The yellowing bruises covering the left side of his face only accentuated his paleness, the thin abrasion along his cheekbone finally healed enough to no longer need a butterfly stitch. Foggy hesitated uncertainly, wondering if he should bail and come back in an hour or maybe wake Matt up while his burrito was hot?

            A mumbled “Hey Foggy” solved his dilemma and he smiled, taking a seat. Matt’s eyes creaked open, staring past the chair.

            “Y’know it’s creepy when you do that,” he said by way of a greeting. “Luckily for you I choose to think of it as cool ninja skills worthy of a B-roll kung fu classic.”

            That got him a smile. Matt rolled slowly onto his back, reaching awkwardly for the bed remote. Foggy didn’t miss the not-so-subtle wincing but decided now was not the time to reopen the morphine abstinence argument. Freaking Catholics. Instead he held up two burritos while the bed droned Matt into a sitting position.

            “I come bearing gifts! Delicious sustenance from the outside world, courtesy of me finding a twenty in my pants this morning.” He slapped Matt’s down on his bed tray and wheeled it under his chin.

            “Thanks, Fog. How’d Sergeant Gale like his bribe?”

            “You little eavesdropper.”

            Matt shrugged his less injured shoulder. “You caught my ear.”

            “So I guess there’s no point in me updating you on the case then, huh?”

            “Not unless you’ve any other hungry cops I don’t know about?”

            Foggy chuckled. “Well, as a matter of fact,” he began with an air of excited importance, “I do,” he dragged out the syllable, “not. Seems no one’s making headway on this anymore.”

            Matt’s eyebrows twitched in his what’cha-gonna-do look. Foggy’s eyes narrowed. That look was almost always followed by the kind of plot twist zinger that made juries gasp.

            “What?” Matt asked innocently, correctly interpreting Foggy’s silence.

            “Your face.”

            “What about it?”

            “I don’t trust it.”

            Matt actually chuckled at that. As was the new usual, the humour didn’t reach his eyes. “You don’t _trust_ my face?”

            “Nope. You’re hiding something, I can tell.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper and leaned forward. “I’m a very brilliant lawyer, I know about these things.”

            “Are you implying I’m on trial, counsellor?”

            Foggy scoffed and sat back, unwrapping his burrito. “Hell no. I’m implying you’re up to something sneaky. Probably with Karen. Or Claire, y’know, she has very shift eyes –”

            “I’m not up to anything, Foggy. Karen and I were going over the case this morning, that’s all. She found some leads.”

            Foggy froze with his mouth poised over the steaming wrap. “Wait what?! Dude, I was kidding! You let her go follow a lead? For god’s sake, that’s how we got into this mess!”

            Matt was already shaking his head, the movement lethargic. “No, Foggy, th-that’s not – of course I wouldn’t send her off –” He paused to catch his breath, gathering his thoughts. “Look, we were just going over what we had on the gun angle. Saw some potential connections with the fired employees. She just went down to the precinct to show Brett, that’s all.”

            Foggy raised his most intimidating eyebrow, wishing Matt could see it and kneel to its power. “‘That’s all’? Seriously? You believe that?”

            “Her heartbeat was steady, Foggy. Don’t you think she got the message just as well as we did?”

            “Harsh but fair. Eat your food.”

            Matt made no move to unwrap the deliciousness. “She also said she was gonna drop by the Bulletin.”

            Foggy slowed mid-chew. His exclamation was almost decipherable around the mouthful of beef and guacamole.

            “She’s writing the story for Ellison.”

            Foggy swallowed with difficulty. “She’s actually gonna write it? Isn’t that – how is that – you’re _okay_ with that?”

            He half shrugged again. “I’m sure there’re already plenty of articles about the lawyer who got shot in his office. At least Karen will get the facts straight. Make some money. Why  not?”

            “And here I thought you liked to stay _out_ of the public eye. Especially when, shall we say, you’re wearing suits?” He took another bite of Mexican heaven.

            Matt’s eyes stayed staring at the bedrail between them. Whatever he was thinking was kept well hidden by the bruises. Tension pooled between them, as it so often did whenever Daredevil was mentioned, even obliquely.

            Foggy glanced to the triangle of bandages visible above the hoodie’s zip. They hid the nightmare bruising that covered most of Matt’s torso, keeping his broken ribs carefully splinted against the less broken ones. Foggy felt his irritation dissipate as the unwanted image of post-second-surgery Matt flashed behind his eyes. Grey skin, angry bruises, a chest full of broken bones and ruptured organs, another breathing tube and days of comatosed agony. Claire had assured him several times that the morphine would be taking care of all that, but Foggy’s ribs hurt just looking at Matt. He’d been out of it for days after he’d technically woken up, and not just because of pain meds. Even at his most lucid he had trouble keeping up with simple conversations, asking the same questions repeatedly, always forgetting the answers, constantly distracted. When Foggy had been alone with him, three of those questions were about Daredevil, which was a whole new kind of worrying: Matt was never the one to bring that up, least of all by name.

            Karen, on the other hand ...

            He broke the tension with a sigh and reached over to unwrap Matt’s burrito for him.

            “I’m not hungry, Foggy.”

            “Have you felt your face lately? You look like a skeleton. You’re plenty hungry.”

            “Foggy –” he protested, a delicate frown curling his eyebrows.

            Foggy cut him off by waving the bulging tortilla under his nose. He adopted a high-pitched Mexican accent. “Eaaaat meee señor Murdock. I am mucho tastero! Bought with manly guy love from your amigo with a baseball bat –”

            Matt snorted. “Are you seriously threatening a beaten-up blind man in a _hospital_ bed?”

            Señor Burrito hesitated. “Well when you put it that way its sounds mucho assholé, but, si.”

            Chuckling, Matt took the burrito. “Thanks, Foggy,” he said with quiet sincerity, then took a pathetically puny bite.

            Foggy shrugged. It was a start.

            “Oh hey that reminds me – I got the window guy in at last. Our office will be airtight in just two short days.”

            “Two days?” Matt managed around his second, more substantial bite.

            “Yeah, no, apparently it takes a _minimum_ of like, eight hours, to refit a pane of glass what with all the measuring and the cutting and the gluing. It’s all very complicated. You’re lucky you were spared the hours of googling and phone calls with extortionate glassblowers.”

            “I don’t think they actually blow the glass, Foggy,” Matt said with a smile.

            “Pft, sure they do. How could they be that good at blowing smoke otherwise, hm? Anyway, the window’s being fixed, so our top secret case planning sessions will soon be protected from spies with those high-tech dish thingies that hear almost as well as you do.”

            “Cases?”

            “Well, they are mostly imaginary at this point. Business hasn’t exactly been good lately, what with the assassination attempts and the office being a crime scene for over a week. We won’t be having lobster for months.”

            “Yeah,” he agreed, solemn. “I’m sorry, Foggy.”

            That made him laugh. “Trust Matt Murdock to apologise for being shot! Honestly, buddy, this time? Not your fault.”

            They ate in semi-silence for a while, Foggy carrying most of the conversation in an effort to aid Matt’s slow progress. His appetite had been downright worrying recently, he wouldn’t bother even pretending to eat unless someone (Claire) bullied him into it. It was great to see him eat something decent.

            Some careful probing had revealed Karen still hadn’t dropped her bomb. She’d told Foggy she would wait until Matt was better to confront him, but considering her track record with patience and her general inability to deal with cliffhangers, every time he saw Matt he half-expected him to be either freaking or giving out. Foggy had dropped several less than subtle hints about Matt telling Karen on his own, but they’d all been shrugged off with varying levels of enthusiasm. Despite that lingering anticipation, Foggy felt more at ease with the Daredevil situation than he had in months. Having someone else to talk to about it – about both sides of it – was amazing. Sure, they couldn’t talk about _everything,_ there were plenty of troubling morsels Foggy hadn’t felt right telling her without Matt’s okay, but being able to confide his frustrations and anxieties in someone made him feel far more human and less like a criminal dickbag. Not having to lie to Karen anymore was like getting an ugly mole removed. He felt comfortable looking her in the eye again.

            It also helped that Daredevil hadn’t made an appearance on the streets in weeks. Foggy’s main worry now was keeping Matt away from them once he was discharged. Knowing him he’d be out the first night, ripping open stitches and angering the bruise nations.

            The downside was Foggy was pretty sure Matt was having some form of vigilante withdrawals. He was faking cheer pretty well, but, not well enough.

            Matt gave up on his food about halfway through, laying it gently on the tray with a grimace as his muscles pulled on his injuries.

            “How’s the pain today?” Foggy asked, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing.

            “It’s okay,” Matt lied through a ghosting smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

            “Y’know the morphine would –”

            “Foggy. Please. Just ... don’t.”

            “You’d heal faster if your body could rest properly.”

            “I’d heal faster if I could get out of here!” Matt snapped with sudden venom. Foggy blinked. He’d heard Matt sound like that maybe three times since they’d met. Matt sagged against the bed, running a hand over his face, then letting it flop down to his lap. He turned his head towards Foggy. “I’m sorry, Foggy. I didn’t mean that. I’m just ...”

            “Just stuck in hospital with a hole in your chest,” he said softly. “I get it, Matt. It’s fine.”

            Suddenly looking decades older, Matt whispered, “No, you don’t.”

            Foggy searched the exhausted face. “Then help me. Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice was gentle. Calm. Murdocks were notoriously easy to spook when it came to heart-to-hearts.

            “I don’t know how,” he answered and to Foggy’s amazement, his voice cracked. Whatever composure he’d been nurturing was splitting.

            “Is it ... Daredevil?” Foggy ventured quietly.

            “No. I just ... Foggy, I can’t rest here.”

            “Why not?”

            “It’s ... it’s just too loud. Still. I can’t – I can’t –”

            Foggy leaned forward and put his hand on Matt’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Easy, buddy. Just breathe, okay?”

            Matt nodded. When he was calmer, Foggy asked, “How do you mean it’s too loud? Like, supersenses aren’t giving you a break?”

            That nod was more of an expression. Matt seemed to be sinking into the bed. His breathing was uneven, ragged. His eyes flitted around the room and he suddenly looked so lost Foggy felt his heart break. How long had he been hiding this?

            “The morphine made it worse, didn’t it?”

            “Yeah.”

            “So it’s not just some Catholic self-torture thing?”

            Matt exhaled slightly more heavily in what Foggy interpreted as humour. “Well, I mean there’s that too.”

            “What’s going on, Matt? You told me you had to focus on letting stuff in, right? What’s changed?”

            Matt lay there, eyebrows pinched, chest heaving, face paling. Foggy tightened his grip, wishing he could think of something more helpful to do.

            “I thought it was just – the morphine – at first,” Matt began, gasping slightly. Foggy glanced around the room, looking for the oxygen mask. It was still here, right? In case he had another attack? “I couldn’t – focus. Everything’s ...” Foggy spotted the mask hooked to the far side of the tallest machine. He hurried around the bed and grabbed it, silently thanking whoever designed the many-buttoned display for including an obvious ON/FLOW one. He awkwardly handed the mask out to Matt, half-expecting him to push it away.

            Instead Matt turned his head toward him and raised his good arm to take it. The elastics bounced and jiggled in his trembling grip. Feeling his stomach shrivel, Foggy helped him ease the straps over his head and settle the mask over his mouth and nose. He hovered while Matt took his first few shaky breaths, then hesitantly returned to his seat. He leant forward in the chair, staring at his best friend. Five minutes ago he seemed fine. This was crazy.

            “Y’know – how – back in the library,” he started haltingly, slowing regaining his breath. “When someone’s phone went off or, they’d – they’re chair would screech over the floor? And you’d – no matter how in the z-zone you were, you’d look up?”

            Foggy nodded. “Yeah, and silently wish they’d fail whatever they were studying for.” Matt dipped his head, blinking slowly.

            “It’s like that. Sometimes ... sometimes something grabs my attention. Out of nowhere or, because I’m,” he shook his head slightly, “paranoid.”

            “That’s how you knew the shooter was coming.”

            “Yeah. Out there,” he gestured languidly to the window, “it’s handy.”

            “How you know where to Daredevil.”

            That got him a smile-like twitch. “’Xactly. But here ...” He turned to face Foggy, his eyes earnest, boring holes in Foggy’s shirt. “There’s just too much. I can’t take it, Foggy. I can’t ... I have to get out of here. I can’t – take –”

            Foggy stood up and reached down, curling his arms as gently as he could around his best friend’s trembling frame. Matt’s forehead was pressed into his collarbone, his right hand wrapping around his upper arm. His fingers dug like vices into Foggy’s shirt, clamped with a strength Matt hadn’t shown in weeks. Foggy tightened his grip, feeling Matt’s left arm pinned between their chests, fist straining. The mask echoed his shattering breaths, battered chest heaving.

            He thought back to his walk through the hospital a few hours ago. He’d barely thought about where he was going, lost in his own world, but now he thought back he remembered hearing cries from the ER, people sobbing in their rooms as he past, doctors and nurses snapping orders and calling for aid ... He’d averted his gaze and kept walking, forgetting the discomfort as soon as he was out of earshot. How the hell could you ignore any of that if you were always within earshot?

            Matt’s hand slackened, then slowly slid back to the bed with a muffled apology _._ Foggy released him and sat back, resting one hand on Matt’s forearm.

            “You have nothing to apologise for, buddy.”

            The mask clouded with regular puffs. “Thanks, Foggy.”

            “Hey,” he said cheerfully, “what are best friends for, huh?” There was a gentle pause. “I can’t imagine what that must be like, Matt. I’d be out of my gourd by now. You can hear all of it?”

            Matt nodded, looking ancient. “I need to get out of here, Foggy.”

            Foggy frowned, pensive. “You talked to Claire about this?”

            “She thinks I should stay but knows I’m usually a quicker healer than this.”

            “I guess you can’t meditate so well here, huh?”

            “No.”

            “What’s Karen say?”

            “Haven’t told her.”

            Foggy was quiet for a long moment.

            “Foggy?”

            “Mm?”

            “What are you thinking?”

            “I’m thinking,” he began, fairly sure he was going insane, “it’s time for a jail break.”


	14. Karen

            The bubbles scurried in a cascade of racing white over the smooth glass. The water crashed into the sink with a muted thunder, ushering the straggling suds down the drain. Karen set the tumbler on its rim beside the first, droplets glistening like subtle diamonds of molten glass along its length. She glanced once around the kitchen, checking for forgotten tasks. Seeing none she whipped a towel from its perch and rubbed the glasses dry, brief, low gongs filling the quiet loft. Once returned to their nook she spun from foot to foot, taking in the dark edges and neat surfaces of Matt’s apartment. While she normally appreciated organisation she found herself wishing the place was messier. Energy thrummed through her, keeping her flitting from task to task all morning. Now she couldn’t think of anything to do. Well, she could run out for paint and brighten the place up a bit but she had a sneaking suspicion that was the kind of change Matt would notice.

            Her spinning turned into a graceful whirl that rose a smile to her lips and faded into stillness as she reached the back of the couch. Matt was still asleep, his jaw slack and his brow smoother than it had been in weeks. Karen’s smile grew. She knelt behind the couch, hooking her arms over it and resting her chin on her forearms. The stiff navy brace secured around her strained right wrist twinged as she settled. After a moment’s stillness she unhooked one arm, lowering it so her fingers could just reach Matt’s hair. She gently wove her painted nails through the soft forest of dark hair, creating silent eddies and watching the thin strands fall in slow motion over his forehead, only to be gathered and whisked skyward once more. He slumbered on, oblivious to the amusement he was providing.

            The weight that had been subtly suffocating her since the bullet broke through the window of Nelson and Murdock had finally begun to ease away. It had been two days since Foggy’s so-called ‘jailbreak’, which turned out to be a thoroughly anticlimactic event. Following a cautionary lecture from Matt’s doctor and a somewhat legible signature scribbled at the end of a form, he was “ill-advisedly” released. Foggy had been determined to add a dash of dramatic to the day, mostly for Matt’s benefit, until a dangerous eyebrow from Claire quashed his ‘creative genius’ and he was forced to wheel him normally out the double doors and into a taxi, sans race car soundtrack.

            The idea of Matt leaving the hospital early had been so ludicrous to her when Foggy first mentioned it she’d actually laughed out loud. Safe in the cafeteria, hopefully out of earshot, Foggy had then told her and Claire the real reason Matt needed to get out of there. She hadn’t thought about how much pain lived in a hospital; she, like all the other visitors, had simply ignored what suffering she could and adapted to what she couldn’t. Having been camped out in a private room that suffering had mostly been Matt’s. Even puzzling over his enhanced senses she had never realised how much he must hear, even without wanting to, in such a fraught environment.

            Claire had only nodded, her brows pulling into a frown that could only be described as compassionate. She then confessed Matt had been struggling with his focus since he woke up – after the first surgery. She had agreed to switch him from morphine to a less immersive painkiller, hoping it would help him shut out the hospital. It hadn’t.

            Now though, even two days free of whatever storm of misery he had been stranded in, Matt was becoming himself again. His colour was quickly returning, softening the contrast of the bruises splattered over his cheekbone and temple, which were themselves looking less gut-wrenching every day. Matt had been keeping his torso carefully covered since the second attack, preferring to change his bandages himself and mostly pretending he had nothing more serious than a pulled shoulder. If she was honest with herself, Karen wished she could see his chest again, if only to reassure herself that he really was healing and not just getting better at covering his pain. The last two times she had seen it gnawed at her heart with nightmare fangs.

            Her fingers stilled in his hair as the memory eagerly pushed through the crack in her evasion. Suddenly Matt’s sleeping face was a swelling mass of blood, his steady breaths piercing through her with the watery rattle she had been so sure would rasp into a permanent silence while his blood soaked her skirt.

            Karen shut her eyes, tight. She pulled her fingers free of Matt’s hair and curled them into fists, her nails biting into her palm. Her other wrist growled a warning as her fist tightened under the brace, but she ignored it. Its growl became a sharp bark and she felt the sweaty fingers close around it again, too tightly, yanking it behind her back. The opposite elbow throbbed on cue, remembering the squelching crunch of the man’s breaking nose.

            She pushed herself away from the couch, retreating into the kitchen with ragged, gasping breaths.

            _Get it together, Page,_ she snapped to herself. _Get control!_

            Memories flashed like punching fire behind her eyes. Her heart sped to their frenzied rhythm as though desperate to outpace them in a vain attempt to anticipate their next blow. She pressed her palms hard against her eyes, sending blackness throbbing past the images, sucking air through her teeth in an attempt to control her lungs’ frantic gusts. She leant back against the fridge, feeling its buzzing rhythm as she slid to the floor. Concentrating on the drone of electricity, she pulled it into her mind, breathing herself out of the sudden tempest.

            _That’s it,_ she soothed. _Come on. You’ve done this before. You know what to do._

            She let her hands flop to her lap and leant her head back against the cool steel. Now her breathing was her own she allowed the memories to come. She kept a deep, steady rhythm expanding from her lungs as they rumbled through her, insisting to be heard, acknowledged. Keeping her eyes closed, she acquiesced.

            She remembered the elevator doors ding open, revealing a haggard-looking Claire. The small talk was a fleeting impression; the cafeteria was closed, need to check on Matt, how’s your shift so far, the handsy junkie downstairs, an extra needle twiddled and a shared laugh. The doors ding again, bookending the calm before the fury.

            They heard a crash and a clatter and glanced at each other, moving as one into a run for Matt’s door. The assassin’s pain was feeble in her memory, but Matt’s every gasp, grunt, and grating cry clawed at her heart. Claire had wrenched the door open but Karen was the first to take in the scene.

            Unimportant details: a bizarre tuft of stuffing on the pillow. A dark stain smeared on the window. A bloodied switchblade lying in a fine arc of red on the floor.

            Important details: Matt. Matt pinned under a man in dark clothes with a snarling sneer that couldn’t belong to the sane. Matt’s face, shades of red and burgundy. One arm pinned, the other twitching with a vicious blow which _crunched_ through him. The bandage lost in red. Unnatural shadows on his side, flanking a thin dripping line. The shadows deepening as the man leaned forward, his knee pressing into Matt’s chest, his fingers clawing around Matt’s throat.

            In a heartbeat, fear became fury. A silver tray flew into Karen’s hands and she surged forward, her powerful legs bringing her to the stranger’s side in moments, away from Claire’s urgent shout. A heartbeat to brace. Her torso twisting as she swung the tray, her muscles iron, her will stone. The tray walloped into the asshole’s head and the clanging impact rang through the room like a celebration.

            It was short lived. In the guise of rolling away in the impact one heavy booted foot shot out, catching her in the ribs and propelling her hard into a cabinet, the handle biting into her clavicle. Claire’s raging bellow filled Karen’s ears as she raced past, her olive hands – so gentle when holding Matt, so tenderly changing bandages – were fists so solid they looked carved from garnet. She screamed at Matt to get up as she threw herself with swinging fists and arcing knees at the attacker, her momentum sending them both into the window, away from Matt.

            Karen reached him just as he tried, so feebly it broke her heart, to get up. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and heaved, wishing she couldn’t hear the gurgling cough that was the only breath he could manage. Her heels skidded on the linoleum and she kicked them off, pulling Matt to the far wall, as far from danger as the suddenly cramped space would allow. She looked around in time to see Claire shoved into the window by the throat. Amazingly, Matt pulled himself onto one elbow. Dark, thick blood splattered to the floor and his entire frame shook. His eyes, dazed and barely open, searched for the source of Claire’s choking snarls, her vicious kicks to the man’s abdomen. Wondering how he was still conscious, Karen pressed her hand firmly into his chest, ordering him to _stay here,_ leaving the shadow of a handprint in the blood.

            She sailed toward Claire, adrenaline and rage pounding through her with a confidence she had rarely felt. Without thinking, her right foot lashed out at the man’s calf and it snapped, her fist already ramming into the side of his head. Claire fell, coughing, as the man spun around with improbable speed, grabbing her offending wrist and pulling it hard, twisting her around and bringing his other fist hard into her side. She cried out but her left elbow was already retaliating and it made solid, zinging contact with something crackable. Her blow unsteadied him, and Claire did not miss the opportunity. She leapt onto his back, distracting him enough for Karen to twist free and land another solid punch. She saw the syringe protruding from Claire’s fist – the needle’s cap already freed, clenched in her teeth – as she rammed it into the man’s neck. Karen lashed out again, keeping him dazed as whatever drug it was slowly stole the light from his eyes. He sagged slowly, then collapsed in a heap, Claire’s arms still curled around his neck.

            They stared at each other, panting. Claire flashed her a triumphant smile which quickly vanished as her eyes moved past her shoulder. Karen followed her gaze, her sawing breath freezing abruptly. Forgetting all else, both women rushed to Matt.

            He was lying on his side in a pool of his own blood. His eyelids were fluttering. He was still conscious, though only just. A very different fear stole through Karen’s veins as she helped Claire roll Matt onto his back. She could barely see his injuries under the thick blood, save the cut along his ribs and the dark, mottled bruising that was already blossoming along his left side. Claire seemed to flick into another person. While seconds ago she was a snarling street fighter with dangerous fists and frenzied, venomous energy, she was now too calm, leaning over Matt, face etched in a frown, hands grabbing gloves from the counter behind them, sharp, clear voice listing instructions.

            Karen obeyed, raising Matt’s head and scooting her knees behind his neck just in time for a new cascade of sluggish blood to ooze over his chin. Karen didn’t need Claire’s succinct analyses to understand the situation. The details didn’t matter. She could hear it. She could hear the tiny whistling gurgle that was Matt’s breathing and she knew. He was suffocating. His eyes blinked laboriously and for a moment his gaze found her face, his beautiful deep eyes darkening as unconsciousness took him. His eyes slid shut and his head rocked to the side as tears blurred her vision.

            Feeling oddly detached from herself, Karen shut out everything that threatened to suck her into helplessness. She focused on Claire’s clipped words, applying firm pressure here, holding the needle there. She worked as though what she saw she only witnessed, as though it had nothing to do with her, no different from watching a movie. When Claire stabbed into Matt’s chest to relieve the pressure he remained motionless and Karen flinched for him. She fetched the tube to be guided down his throat, punching the emergency button on her way while Claire wiped the blood clear from his throat. She barely registered the others’ arrival. Nor did she protest as they ushered her away. She simply stepped backwards, her eyes fixed on Matt’s slack features, déjà vu threatening to overwhelm her. Then, just as before, he was taken away by chaos and she was left covered in his blood.

            “Karen? Karen!”

            She jumped violently, her eyes snapping open. Matt was kneeling in front of her, concern pulling on the bruises, one gentle hand on her arm. She looked around, momentarily disoriented. She was in Matt’s apartment. On the floor by the fridge. With tears on her cheeks.

            “Karen? Are you alright?”

            Feeling monumentally stupid, Karen took a deep breath and smiled. “Yeah, no, I’m fine. Sorry, Matt. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

            He shook his head, his eyebrows still pinched in worry. “Forget it. What happened? Are your ribs okay?”

            She wiped her cheeks dry and managed to laugh. The ache in her ribs throbbed from her attack but the moment he, who must have more broken and cracked ribs than whole ones, mentioned her two bruised bones, the pain seemed to vanish. “Yeah, they’re fine. I’m fine, really. I’m okay.”

            A smile flashed across his lips but did nothing to ease the tension from his brow. She reached up to smooth it herself, careful to avoid the dark blotches over his temple.

            “I’m fine, Matt. Really. Just ... got lost a moment. That’s all.”

            “You were crying.”

            “Only a little.” She leaned forward and kissed his less bruised cheek. “I’m good. Honestly. C’mon,” she added, scooting her feet beneath her. “Let’s get you back to the couch. You’re still on bedrest.”

            He let her steer him back to his roost, the arm she had pulled across her shoulders to ease his still-shuffling walk tightening around her so it was unclear who was supporting whom. Once he had been eased back to the pillows, almost hiding his wince this time, he spoke softly, drawing Karen down beside him.

            “It was the attack again, wasn’t it?”

            “Uh, you mean our daring and heroic rescue?” she corrected, her own smile widening in answer to his. Since he’d left the hospital, his smiles had become genuine once more. She drank in the sight of him, soothing herself with the knowledge that he was safe, that there was a cop right outside and the asshole who had done this to him was in a cell. Complete with bruises courtesy of _her_.

            “Yeah, that,” he chuckled. His eyes flicked between two points along her jaw and she wondered if that was a habit left over from when he could see. His head cocked to the side slightly for a moment. His expression cleared, the smile growing. “Did I ever thank for that?”

            She leaned forward, pulling her hair back over her shoulder. “Thank me for ...?”

            He chuckled again, his smile lifting her heart. “For saving my life.”

            “Oh that? No, I don’t suppose you did.”

            “Well then,” he said, leaning forward and kissing her softly. “Thank you,” he kissed her again, “for saving,” and once more, “my life.” He smiled against her a moment before pulling away and she wondered if he was listening to her heartbeat. It pounded pleasantly through her ears, across her chest.

            She looked at him for a long moment, wondering. With a mental nod she decided. “Well, we’re even now.”

            His eyebrows twitched in puzzlement. “Even?”

            “Yeah. You saved my life, I saved yours. Even,” she said, her heart beating faster.

            He chuckled. “I’m not sure getting you off a bogus murder charge is the same as –”

            “I’m not talking about that,” she said quickly, watching him closely. “I’m talking about after. When you saved me from the Union Allied hitman. Y’know, in the Mask.”


	15. Matt

            The world narrowed to the fluttering waves of heat crashing over his suddenly warm skin from Karen’s immobile figure. Despite the police siren wailing two blocks over, the dog walker’s four charges barking at a squirrel scratching through a tree, the old couple in the apartment across the street singing along to Annie, and the hundred other minute melodies cascading through the city, silence enveloped the couch, dampening the world into stillness. Karen’s nerves washed over him with every beat of her racing heart while his own was suddenly galloping in his chest, stirring the sleeping embers into a dull burn.

            She knew.

            _She knew._

            He took a slow breath, buying time, mind racing to catch up, to overtake.

            “H-how?”

            Sunshine and coconut rolled past his nose as she tucked her hair behind one ear. “I figured it out. Right after you were shot.”

            “The scars?” His voice was barely a whisper, catching on the fear his throat.

            He felt her nod. “Yeah,” she said quietly a beat later, her voice directed to her knees. It was soft. Calm.

            “Right. Right.” He lowered his head, hiding his eyes and wishing he could read her expression. “Does Foggy know?”

            “Yeah. He, uh, he filled me in.”

            That made him look back up, eyes searching pointlessly. “What did he tell you?”

            “Not much,” she said quickly. “He didn’t want to tell me anything ... well, he wanted to keep your secrets. He’s a good friend.”

            “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “He is.” His heart fluttered faster. The embers glowed angrily.

            “He just told me the truth about that accident. When you were a kid. And about Fisk and Nubu – Nobu. And that you’re blind, but uh, you can still ... em, _see._ ”

            He took another deep breath and shifted on the couch, wincing slightly as his ribs complained. “Yeah. Yeah, I can see. In a manner of speaking.”

            “Foggy didn’t really explain how it – how it worked?” she prompted. Gentle. Curious.

            He listened to her heartbeat more attentively. It was still faster than usual but it had calmed since he shattered the tense anticipation. She had known he was Daredevil for weeks now and, thinking back, he couldn’t really remember any change in her behaviour towards him. Nothing except the extra care she had shown him while he was hurt, but that was – that had felt – _normal_ for a girlfriend. Right? She hadn’t – she wasn’t – was he still Matt to her? Was she still Karen?

            Trying not to overthink, he explained his impressionistic perspective, his world on fire. Her heart stepped up a beat as he spoke but her silence felt ... eager, not afraid. Not angry. Like she just wanted ... to understand.

            Foggy’s renewed persistence in telling Karen about the Daredevil side of him finally made sense. As did her uncharacteristic silence after seeing his scars. As he spoke, he felt the words carry tendrils of compacted weight from his chest, freeing his breathing and allowing him to sit straighter. Karen was fascinated, asking questions he’d never really considered himself before now. Like could he hear when the prize in the cereal was about to land in his bowl as a kid, or did he know which hotdog vendors to avoid because he could smell their less than stellar hygiene, or did he have a favourite flavour-smell of her nail polish? Mostly things he hadn’t given much thought to. She didn’t pry after his nightly crusades, at first she barely even asked about Fisk. Her self-restraint almost made him laugh – he could _feel_ her excitement, her curiosity, her genuine, _honest_ interest in, not only the unusual way he saw the world, but _who_ that made him. Outside of Daredevil. Outside of a lawyer. Just as a kid from Hell’s Kitchen who’d lost his sight and gained an inferno.

            Sitting there in the invisible eddies swirling through his loft, the throbbing in his chest and ribs forgotten in the warmth of her conversation, nerves and excitement spiking his blood ... it felt like they were back on their first date. Only this time, he wasn’t skirting subjects, offering oblique half-truths or carefully steering her away from dangerous insights. When she asked, he answered. No matter how much he stammered.

            She didn’t ask about Stick. She didn’t question why he took to the streets each night. She didn’t even ask where he’d gotten his suit. He didn’t think for a second those questions weren’t swirling through her mind each time she drew breath to voice another. But, for some reason, and one for which he was grateful, she kept her inquisition light. Casual. For that, his heart swelled with affection for her.

            Their conversation spun from how to detect the heartbeat of a trained hitman to if he could tell which horse would win on track day and is that how he could still afford his rent? From what it was like to filter out the background tastes of their usual Thai order and just enjoy the flavour she and Foggy knew, to how the rain both helped and hindered him during a fight, offering intense new detail along with a storm of motion, tastes, temperatures, and echoes that used to make him dizzy as a kid.

            The sun’s warmth disappeared from the still-thrumming city. Matt knew the apartment would be shades of shadows by now, but Karen made no move to waken the lights’ buzzing burn. The wall of secrets that had stood between them since the night she first borrowed his shirt had shrunk far enough for them both to almost forget it still stood and they both delighted in its absence. She was curled against him, her legs over his, head tucked against his neck. His arms were wrapped gently around her, the aches in his torso forgotten against her warmth. Their heartbeats beat like waves over a single beach. Together. Their heat washing over each other in a peaceful rhythm that lulled their conversation slowly into mumbled words and staccato hums. With his smiling cheek pressed into her delicious hair he felt his eyelids droop. Karen’s breathing had not broken from its deep and steady rhythm for long, lost minutes.

            “Karen?” he mumbled into her hair. Her fingers twitched against his side but she made no sound. He blinked, then smiled as his lids forgot to open again. He wanted to tell her. Well. There was no use waking her now. He thought it instead, the simple, sacred words floating away as he slid into a warm, cosy sleep.

            _I love you._


	16. Epilogue: Daredevil

            The gun’s blast cracked through the night, whipping uselessly into the air. The sound exploded along the pier, leaping from the damp concrete, bouncing off the steel ridges of the freight containers, and echoing up into the open night as though determined to reach the stars he knew were up there somewhere. The ricocheting, shimmering waves revealed three men still on their feet, the other four lying prone and crumpled in puddles of salt-laced water. The last gun was plucked from the sweaty hand with a whispered _snikt._ Maintaining his momentum and lashing out one booted foot into the shooter’s chest, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen nimbly released the magazine from its housing, jerking the remaining bullet free of the chamber, and spun the neutered handgun in a whizzing arc into the second man’s face. With a grunting cry he thudded into the cool stone.

            Tiny tsunamis reared and heaved themselves over the miniature ravines of the rough concrete as Daredevil ran through the shallow puddles, sweeping his right leg around in a low arc as he skidded into the next opponent, raising a spray of oil-slicked water sailing for the man’s eyes. The splattering impact was followed by the dull, squelching _crack_ of a fracturing cheekbone. His armoured fist powered through its swing, twisting his torso and transferring its strength into his left heel, already extending like a weighted javelin for the man’s gut. He went down with a strangled cough while Daredevil ducked sharply to avoid the knife zinging through the air, leaving the spice of steel curving through the night like the sting of a scratch.

            The final two were charging him simultaneously, one’s rage arriving early as a low roll of warmer current, the other – the one he had come for – sprinting with focused tension. He waited until they were less than a second away – their fists already launched, feet shifting into stable stances – until he moved. His teeth bared in a smile that sucked the river-laden air through the blood drying on his teeth. He leapt up and twisted, driving one stone fist onto a temple while the opposite heel powered into an unprotected chest. Both men recoiled, coughing and swearing uncreatively as Daredevil landed nimbly on one knee. With one last shock of violence the last henchman crumpled into an unconscious heap, his supervisor gasping on the ground.

            Matt straightened slowly, his breath hissing through his teeth, tasting of copper and seaweed. He half-raised a hand to his chest. A sharper pain and lanced through the ignorable throbbing and he wondered idly if he’d ripped another stitch. The pain crested and fell back to the familiar, tolerable tide of aching. Disguising his limp he strode forward and grabbed fistfuls of the panting man’s heavy jacket, pulling him onto his knees, the oozing face inches from his own.

            “I give, I give! Jesus Christ man, just back off will ya! Ya won, okay!”

            “I didn’t come here just to break in my new gloves – I came for information.”

            The already quavering heartbeat kicked up a gear as the man groaned. “Aw come _on_ man, I don’t know shit! I just check the punch-cards, y’know?”

            “Bullshit. You have what I need. I know you do. The lawyers your people attacked last month. You know about them.”

            The man’s gin-spiked breath wavered in confusion. “The – what?”

            “The lawyers. The ones your boss added to the kill list. Downtown, near Forty-Eighth and Ninth.”

            “Shit you mean the blind dude Groucho got popped for?”

            Matt cocked his head. “Groucho?”

            “Yeah, yeah, that asshole who’s obsessed with those old film bros. He shot some blind lawyer a few weeks ago.”

            Matt wasn’t sure whether to sigh or chuckle. He compromised by tightening his grip on the man’s jacket, eliciting a nervous gasp. “The blind lawyer and his associates. I need to know what the next play is.” He pulled back his lips, enjoying the cardiac skip at the sight of his red-slicked teeth. “And you’re gonna tell me about it.”

            “Dude – seriously? I don’t know shit, I just tell the boys where to load the guns, okay?”

            His heart tripped in his rhythm. Matt’s smile didn’t waver.

            “You’re lying.” He punched the man hard, hearing the skin over his cheekbone burst as he cried out, in exasperation as much as in pain.

            “I swear, you asshole –” He was interrupted by knuckles in his gut.

            “Tell me!” Matt barked into the sweating face, his patience evaporating as the burning in his chest and side became restless.

            “Okay okay! Jesus! They’re still on the list, Carter still wants the girl to pay for all the shit she’s caused, alright?”

            “Carter who?”

            “Just Carter!”

            “Tell me what they’re planning.”

            “I don’t know!”

            _“Tell me!”_ Cracking thuds arced through the night.

            “Shit – alright! Look man, I don’t know the details I only know the shit they’re gonna use, okay? They had to wait for the cops to stop giving a shit about us so it’s been quiet, real quiet.”

            “What shit? Where is it?”

            “Not here.” The man whimpered as Matt drew back his fist. “Wa-wa-wa-wait, I m-mean it’s not here _yet!_ Shit, man! It’s arriving in two days. _Fuck.”_

            “What dock?”

            “Forty-Third. I dunno when exactly.”

            Matt tilted his head, listening. The incessant pulses were regular enough, but the shards of breath slicing over the split lip were hiding something.

            Calming, the man continued. “Look, that girl and her lawyers really fucked things up for us so yeah, they’re not just gonna let that shit go. I dunno what’s in the container for them but it’s, well, it’s on special order so you know it’s gonna be some _shit_. But c’mon man,” he said, almost laughing around his wheeze, “what the hell are you gonna do? You can’t guard all three of ‘em at once, can you?” The words became a sneer and it was Matt’s turn to hold back his amusement.

            “Wanna bet?”

            With one decisive blow the man fell against the cold pavement, his heartrate falling abruptly into a slumberous rhythm.

            He straightened himself up – gingerly this time as his ribs growled abuse. Taking deep, slow breaths he catalogued his aches. He could feel sticking warmth seeping against his breastbone, squeezing itself along his chest, absorbing his sweat and pressing against the clammy armour. He pulled his left arm in, keeping it tight against his ribs in an effort to quell the rumbling pressure. He’d definitely overdone it. The stitches were shot. Again.

            Once his breath was caught he pulled out his burner phone and left an anonymous tip about a few freighters full of illegal firearms at the Fifteenth precinct. Rather than leave directions to the impressively well concealed office, he simply dragged his informant and left him as a doorstop, helpfully keeping the heavy metal door ajar for the cops. There should plenty hidden in the printed pages to finally indict the CEO of Sea Fairer Transport and put an end to this nightmare of a case. He cast his mind out one last time along the dock, checking the men were still out cold and for anything important he might have missed. Finding nothing, he sat heavily against one of the steel freighters and waited.

            Despite the aches in his torso he felt better than he had in weeks. The salty breeze rolled around him, whispering snippets of a thousand stories meant only for him. Tomorrow would be his first (half) day back in the office, and if the flour clinging to Karen’s hair earlier was any indication, there would be cake. And coffee. And the two people he most cared for, eager for another argument over whether the Hellions could ever beat the Knicks’ current line-up, or if Nelson and Murdock was ready for its own line of custom baseball caps – and more importantly, if the ‘m’ should have tiny red horns poking out of it, and a bloodied butcher’s knife protruding from the capitalised ‘n’. He took a deep breath of Hell’s Kitchen and smiled.

            When the squad cars’ sirens were two blocks away he heaved himself to his feet with a grimace. Gingerly testing his weight on his battered side, he began shuffling back towards the flaring flames of his city, smiling slightly as he wondered if Karen knew how to sew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Thank you to everyone who read this little fic, I hope you enjoyed it! An extra thank-you to all you lovely reviewers - a craftsman is always pleased to hear her work is appreciated and those emails make my day! Happy reading fandom friends :)


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